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GOLDEN LEAVES. 



THE GOLD EX LEAVES SERIES. 

i. Golden Leaves from the British Poets. 

2. Golden Leaves from the American Poets. 

3. Golden Leaves irom the Dramatic Poets. 

IN UNIFO R M VOL UMES. 



GOLDEN LEAVES 



FROM THE 



BRITISH AND AMERICAN 



DRAMATIC POETS 



COLLECTED AND ARRANGES BY 



JOHN W. S. HOWS 



NEW YORK 
BUNCE AND HUNTINGTON, PUBLISHERS 

M DCCC LXV 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1S65, 
By Buxce and Huntington, 

In tht Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern 
District of New York. 




PREFACE. 



IN the Dramatic Poetry of a country are embodied 
the highest efforts of its genius. Our series of 
u Golden Leaves" from the British and Amer- 
ican Poets would be, therefore, incomplete with- 
out a collection of specimens from the Dramatic 
Poets of those countries. In the present volume, 
we give selections of recognized* beauties from the 
British and American Dramatists, arranged in 
chronological order, commencing from the earliest 
known Dramas in the English language, and con- 
tinuing the series down to the present time. The 
collection, we trust, will be found interesting to the 
student of Dramatic Literature, as exhibiting in a 
condensed form the mutations in taste, style, and 
method of treatment, which the Drama has under- 
gone during the last three centuries. We believe 
it will also be acceptable to lovers of the Legitimate 
Drama, who still cling to recollections of the past 



vi PREFA CE. 

glories of the Stage, and will receive with welcome 
these souvenirs of the cherished favourites of their 
youth. We have even a hope that modern play- 
goers (to whom, in this age of the Sensational and 
Spectacular Drama, the "Legitimate" is fast ap- 
proaching only to the traditionary) may dip into our 
pages with some degree of interest — akin, perhaps, 
to that with which they examine the fossil remains 
of extinct generations, if only to ascertain the pre- 
tensions which the admirers of the Drama in past 
ages declared to be its functions and its purposes, 
viz. : — 

" To wake the soul by tender strokes of art, 
To raise the genius, and to mend the heart ; 
To make mankind in conscious virtue bold, 
Live o'er each scene, and be what they behold : 
For this the Tragic Muse first trod the Stage 1 '. . . . 



J. W. S. H. 

v York, "I 
June 22, 1865. 



5 Cottage Place, New York, ~) 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Thomas Sackville Lord Buckurst, and Thomas 
Norton. 

The Tragedy of Ferrex and Porrex (the Earliest known 
Specimen of English Tragedy, 1561) I 

Thomas Kyd. 

The Spanish Tragedy 5 or, Hieronimo is mad again 5 

Christopher Marlowe. 

The Tragical History of the Life and Death of Doctor Faustus 10 
Edward the Second 14 

William Shakspeare. 

Romeo and Juliet 20 

Othello 26 

Hamlet 30 

King Lear 33 

As You Like It 36 

Twelfth Night 40 

Macbeth 42 

Midsummer Night's Dream 44 

Much Ado about Nothing 46 

King John 47 

King Henry V 5c 

King Henry VI 53 



viii CONTENTS. 

William Shakspeare (continued). page 

King Henry VIII 54 

Julius Caesar 56 

Merchant of Venice 59 

Antony and Cleopatra 62 

Measure for Measure 63 

Cymbeline : 65 

The Tempest 73 

Ben Jonson. 

Catiline, his Conspiracy 74 

Poetaster 5 or, his Arraignment 78 

Thomas Decker. 

Satiro-Mastix, or the Untrussing of the Humorous Poet... 85 

Thomas Decker and John Webster. 

Westward Hoe! a Comedy 89 

John Webster. 

Duchess of Malfy 90 

John Marston. 

The History of Antonio and Mellida 98 

George Chapman. 

Byron's Conspiracy 101 

Thomas Heywood. 

The Royal King and the Loyal Subject 102 

Thomas Middleton. 

The Witch : a Tragi-Cornedy 103 

No Wit — Help like a Woman's no 

Cyril Tourneur. 

The Revenger's Tragedy ill 



CONTENTS. ix 

John Ford. pace 

The Broken Heart 115 

The Lover's Melancholy 1 21 

Beaumont and Fletcher. 

The Maid's Tragedy 123 

Philaster; or, Love lies a bleeding 128 

John Fletcher. 

The Two Noble Kinsmen 138 

Philip Massinger. 

The City Madam : a Comedy 143 

A New Way to pay Old Debts 148 

The Fatal Dowry : a Tragedy 151 

James Shirley. 

The Lady of Pleasure : a Comedy , 155 

John Dryden. 

All for Love ' 158 

Don Sebastian 168 

The Conquest of Grenada 178 

Tyrannic Love x 79 

The Spanish Friar 180 

The Indian Emperor 180 

Nathaniel Lee. 

Alexander the Great; or, the Rival Queens 181 

Thomas Otway. 

Venice Preserved 1 9 z 

The Orphan . . 20 1 

Thcmas Southerne. 

Isabella ; or, the Fatal Marriage 207 

Oroonoko 215 



x CONTENTS. 

Nicholas Rowe. page 

Tarn erlane 223 

J ane Shore 230 

The Fair Penitent 236 

William Congreve. 

The Mourning Bride 239 

John Hughes. 

The Siege of Damascus 24S 

Joseph Addison. 

Cato , 254 

Samuel Johnson. 

Irene 262 

George Lillo. 

Fatal Curiosity 263 

Rev. Edward Young. 

The Revenge 271 

William Mason. 

Caractacus 280 

Elfrida 280 

Richard Glover. 

Boadicea 281 

David Mallet. 

Alfred the Great 282 

Henry Brooke. 

Gustavus Vasa; or, the Deliverer of his Country 283 

Rev. John Home. 

Douglas 286 



CONTENTS. >i 

James Thomson. page 

Edward and Eleonora , 293 

Tancred and Sigismunda 294 

Sophonisba 295 

Arthur Murphy. 

The Grecian Daughter .« 295 

Hannah More. 

Percy 301 

George Colman. 

The Iron Chest 309 

Joanna Baillie. 

De Montfort 316 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 

Remorse 323 

Lord Byron. 

Manfred 333 

Marino Faliero, Doge of Venice 334 

Sardanapalus 338 

The Two Foscari : 339 

Werner 340 

Rev. Charles Maturin. 

Bertram 342 

Richard Lalor Shiel. 

The Apostate 346 

Evadne, or the Statue 351 

James Haynes. 

Conscience; or, the Bridal Night 358 



xii CONTENTS. 

Bryan Waller Proctor (Barry Cornwall). page 

Mirandola 360 

Miss Mitford. 

Rienzi ,.,. 361 

Thomas Lovell Beddoes. 

The Bride's Tragedy 369 

James Sheridan Knowles. 

Virginius 370 

The Wife : a Tale of Mantua 379 

The Hunchback 384 

Rev. Henry Hart Milman. 

Fazio . 386 

Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton. 

Richelieu 3S9 

The Lady of Lyons 392 

Frances Ann Kemble (Mrs. Butler). 

Francis the First 395 

Thomas Noon Talfourd. 

Ion 397 

Gerald Griffin. 

Gisippus; or, the Forgotten Friend 402 

John Banim. 

Damon and Pythias 404 

George W. Lovell. 

Love's Sacrifice ; or, the Rival Merchants 414 

Rev. James White, 

The King of the Commons 421 



C QNTENTS. xiii 
John Howard Payne. iage 

Brutus ; or, the Fall of Tarquin 431 

Nathaniel Parker Willis. 

Bianca Visconti 5 or, the Heart ovei tasked / \\\ 

Tortesa, the Usurer 47 3 

Epes Sargent, 

Velasco.. 479 

Cornelius Mathews. 

Witchcraft 490 

Anna Cor.a Mowatt (Mrs. Ritchie). 

Armand 5 or, the Peer and the Peasant 511 

George H. Boker. 

The Betrothal 525 

Calaynos 546 

Francesca da Rimini , 549 



GOLDEN L E AV E S 

FROM THE DRAMATIC POETS. 



®l)omas SadarilU <£arl Dorset, anb Stomas 
Norton. 

THE TRAGEDY OF FERREX AND PORREX. 

(The Earliest Known Specimen of English Tragedy.) 

(i 5 6i.) 

Ferrex and Porrex, sons of Gorboduc, a King of the Ancient Britons, 
are rivals. Ferrex, the eldest son, is slain by his brother. The 
nevus is brought to his father, and ivhilst Gorboduc m lamenting the 
death of his eldest-born, Marcella, a court lady, enters and informs 
the King that Porrex has been stabbed by his mother in his bed. 

Gorboduc, Arostus, Eubulus, and others. 

Gorb. What cruel destiny, 
What froward fate hath sorted us this chance ? 
That even in those where we should comfort find, 
Where our delight now in our aged days 
Should rest and be, even there our only grief, 
And deepest sorrows to abridge our life, 
Most pining cares and deadly thoughts do grave. 



2 G L D EN L E A V E. S. 

Arost. Your grace should now, in these grave years of 
yours, 
Have found ere this the price of mortal joys, 
How full of change, how brittle our estate, 
How short they be, how fading here in earth, 
Of nothing sure, save only of the death, 
To whom both man and all the world doth owe 
Their end at last ; neither should Nature's power 
In other sort against your heart prevail, 
Than as the naked hand, whose stroke assays 
The armed breast where force doth light in vain. 

Gorb. Many can yield right grave and sage advice 
Of patient sprite to others wrapt in woe, 
And can in speech both rule and conquer kind,* 
Who, if by proof they might feel Nature's force, 
Would show themselves men as they are indeed, 
Which now will needs be gods : but what doth mean 
The sorry cheer of her that here doth come ? 

Marcella enters. 

Marc. Oh, where is ruth ? or where is pity now ? 
Whither is gentle heart and mercy fled ? 
Are they exiled out of our stony breasts, 
Never to make return ? is all the world 
Drowned in blood, and sunk in cruelty ? 
If not in women mercy may be found, 
If not (alas !) within the mother's breast 
To her own child, to her own flesh and blood ; 
If ruth be banished thence, if pity there 
May have no place, if there no gentle heart 



* Nature: natural affecticn. 



Sf ACKVIL L K A N D X RT N. 3 

Do live and dwell, where should we seek it then r 

Gorb. Madam (alas !) what means your woful tale 1 

Marc. O silly woman I ! why to this hour 
Have kind and fortune thus deferred my breath, 
That I should live to see this doleful day ? 
Will ever wight believe that such hard heart 
Could rest within the cruel mother's breast, 
With her own hand to slay her only son ? 
But out (alas !) these eyes beheld the same, 
They saw the 4reary sight, and are become 
Most ruthful records of the bloody fact. 
Porrex, alas ! is by his mother slain, 
And with her hand, a woful thing to tell, 
While slumb'ring on his careful bed he rests, 
His heart stabbed in with knife is reft of life. 

Gorb. O Eubulus, oh draw this sword of ours, 
And pierce this heart with speed. O hateful light, 
C) loathsome life, O sweet and welcome death ! 
Dear Eubulus, work this, we thee beseech. 

Enb. Patient your grace, perhaps he liveth yet, 
With wound received, but not of certain death. 

Gorb. O let us then repair unto the place, 
And see if that Porrex live, or thus be slain. [Exit. 

Marc. Alas ! he liveth not, it is too true, 
That with these eyes, of him a peerless prince, 
Son to a king, and in the flower of youth, 
Even with a twink a senseless stock I saw. 

Arost. O damned deed ! 

Marc. But hear his ruthful end. 
The noble prince, pierced with the sudden wounds, 
Out of his wretched slumber hastily start, 
Whose strength now failing, sireight he overthrew, 



4 GOLDEN LEA VES. 

When in the fall his eyes, ev'n now unclosed, 
Beheld the queen, and cried to her for help ; 
We then, alas ! the ladies which that time 
Did there attend, seeing that heinous deed, 
And hearing him oft call the wretched name 
Of mother, and to cry to her for aid, 
Whose direful hand gave him the mortal wound, 
Pitying, alas ! (for naught else could we do) 
His rueful end, ran to the woful bed, 
Despoiled streight his breast, and all we might 
Wiped in vain with napkins next at hand 
The sudden streams of blood, that flushed fast 
Out of the gaping wound : O what a look, 
O what a ruthful, steadfast eye methought 
He fixed upon my face, which to my death 
Will never part from me ! — wherewith abraid, 
A deep-fetched sigh he gave, and therewithal 
Clasping his hands, to heaven he cast his sight ; 
And streight, pale death pressing within his face, 
The flying ghost his mortal corpse forsook. 

Arost, Never did age bring forth so vile a fact. 



KYD. 



(ityomaa Kgb. 

THE SPANISH TRAGEDY 

AGAIN. 

(1588.) 

Horatio, the son of Hieronimo, it murdered while he is sitting with 
his mistress Belimperia by night in an arbour in his father 's garden. 
The murderers (Balthazar, his rival, and Lorenzo, the brother of 
Belimperia) hang his body on a tree. Hieronimo it awakened by 
the cries- of Belimperia, and, coming out into his garden, discovers 
by the light of a torch, that the murdered man is his son. Upon 
this he goes distracted. 

Hieronimo, mad. 

Hier. .... A son, 

The more he grows in stature and in years, 
The more unsquared, unlevelled he appears ; 
Reckons his parents among the rank of fools, 
Strikes cares upon their heads with his mad riots, 
Makes them look old before they meet with age ; 
This is a son ; and what a loss is this, considered truly ! 
Oh, but my Horatio grew out of reach of those 
Insatiate humours : he loved his loving parents : 
He was my comfort, and his mother's joy, 
The very arm that did hold up our house — 
Our hopes were stored up in him, 
None but a damned murderer could hate him. 
He had not seen the back of nineteen years, 
When his strong arm unhorsed the proud Prince Balthazar ; 
And his great mind, too full of honour, took 
To mercy that valiant but ignoble Portuguese. 



6 GOLD EX LEAVES. 

Well, Heaven is Heaven still ! 

And there is Nemesis, and furies, 

And things called whips, 

And they sometimes do meet with murderers : 

They do not always 'scape, that's some comfort, 

Ay, ay, ay, and then time steals on, and steals, and steals, 

Till violence leaps forth, like thunder 

Wrapped in a ball of fire, 

And so doth bring confusion to them all. \JLxiU 

Jaques and Pedro, servants. 

J-aq. I wonder, Pedro, why our master thus 
At midnight sends us with our torches light, 
When man and bird and beast are all at rest, 
Save those that watch for rape and bloody murder. 

Fed. O Jaques, know thou that our master's mind 
Is much distract since his Horatio died : 
And, now his aged years should sleep in rest, 
His heart in quiet, like a desperate man 
Grows lunatic and childish for his son : 
Sometimes as he doth at his table sit, 
He speaks as if Horatio stood by him. 
Then starting in a rage, falls on the earth, 
Cries out Horatio, where is my Horatio ? 
So that with extreme grief, and cutting sorrow, 
There is not left in him one inch of man : 
See, here he comes. 

Hieronimo enters. 

Hier. I pry through every crevice of each wall, 
Look at each tree, and search through every brake, 
Beat on the bushes, stamp our grandame Earth, 



KYD. 7 

Dive in the water, and stare up to heaven ; 
Yet cannot I behold my son Horatio. 
How now ! who's there, sprights, sprights ? 

Ped. We are your servants that attend you, sir. 

Hier. What make you with your torches in the dark ? 

Ped. You bid us light them, and attend you here. 

Hier. No, no, you are deceived, not I, you are deceived : 
Was I so mad to bid you light your torches now ? 
Light me your torches at the mid of noon, 
When as the sun-god rides in all his glory ; 
Light me your torches then. 

Ped. Then we burn daylight. 

Hier. Let it be burnt ; Night is a murd'rous slut, 
That would not have her treasons to be seen : 
And yonder pale-faced Hecate there, the moon, 
Doth give consent to that is done in darkness. 
And all those stars that gaze upon her face, 
Are aglets* on her sleeve, pins on her train : 
And those that should be powerful and divine, 
Do sleep in darkness when they most should shine. 

Ped. Provoke them not, fair sir, with tempting words, 
The heavens are gracious ; and your miseries 
And sorrow make you speak you know not what. 

Hier. Villain, thou liest ! and thou doest naught 
But tell me I am mad : thou liest, I am not mad : 
I know thee to be Pedro, and he Jaques. 
I'll prove it to thee ; and were I mad, how could I ? 
Where was she the same night, when my Horatio was mur- 
dered ? 
She should nave shone : search thou the book : 

* Tags of points. 



8 G OLDEN LEAVES. 

Had the moon shone in my boy's face, there was a kind of 

grace, 
That I know, nay, I do know, had the murd'rer seen him, 
His weapon would have fallen, and cut the earth, 
Had he been framed of naught but blood and death ; 
Alack, when mischief doth it knows not what, 
What shall we say to mischief? 

Isabella, his wife, enters. 

Isa. Dear Hieronimo, come in a doors, 

seek not means to increase thy sorrow. 
Hier. Indeed, Isabella, we do nothing here ; 

1 do not cry, ask Pedro and Jaques : 

Not I, indeed ; we are very merry, very merry. 

Isa. How ? be merry here, be merry here ? 
Is not this the place, and this the very tree, 
Where my Horatio died, where he was murdered ? 

Hier. Was, do not say what : let her weep it out. 
This was the tree, I set it of a kernel ; 
And when our hot Spain could not let it grow, 
But that the infant and the human sap 
Began to wither, duly twice a morning 
Would I be sprinkling it with fountain water : 
At last it grew and grew, and bore and bore : 
Till at length it grew a gallows, and did bear our son. 
It bore thy fruit and mine. O wicked, wicked plant ! 
See who knocks there. [One knocks within at the door. 

Ped. It is a painter, sir. 

Hier. Bid him come in, and paint some comfort, 
For surely there's none lives but painted comfort. 
Let him come in, one knows not what may chance. 
God's will that I should set this tree ! but even so 



KYB. 9 

Masters ungrateful servants rear from naught, 
And then they hate them that did bring them up. 

The Painter enters. 

Pain. God bless you, sir. 

Hier. Wherefore ? why, thou scornful villain ? 
How, where, or by what means should I be blest ? 

Isa. What wouldst thou have, good fellow ? 

Pain. Justice, madam. 

Hier. O ambitious beggar, wouldst thou have that 
That lives not in the world ? 
Why, all the undelved mines cannot buy 
An ounce of justice, 'tis a jewel so inestimable. 
I tell thee, God hath engrossed all justice in His hands, 
And there is none but what comes from Him, 

Pain. O then I see that God must right me for my 
murdered son. 

Hier. How, was thy son murdered ? ♦ 

Pain. Ay, sir; no man did hold a son so dear. 

Hier. What, not as thine ? that's a lie, 
As massy as the earth : I had a son, 
Whose least unvalued hair did weigh 
A thousand of thy sons, and he was murdered. 

Pain. Alas, sir, I had no more but he. 

Hier. Nor I, nor I ; but this same one of mine 
Was worth a legion. But all is one. 
Pedro, Jaques, go in a doors ; Isabella, go, 
And this good fellow here, and I, 
Will range this hideous orchard up and down, 
Like two she-lions, 'reaved of their young. 
Go in a doors, I say. [Exeunt. 



10 GOLDEN LEAVES. 



Christopher fttarlou)*. 

THE TRAGICAL HISTORY OF THE LIFE AND DEATH 
OF DOCTOR FAUSTUS. 

(1589.) 
Hoiv Faustus fell to the study of Magic. 

Born of parents base of stock 

In Germany, within a town called Rhodes : 

At riper years to Wirtemberg he went, 

Whereat his kinsmen chiefly brought him up. 

So much he profits in Divinity, 

That shortly he was graced with Doctor's name, 

Excelling all, and sweetly can dispute 

In the heavenly matters of theology : 

Till, swol'n with cunning and a self-conceit, 

His waxen wings did mount above his reach, 

And melting, Heaven conspired his overthrow ; 

For falling to a devilish exercise, 

And glutted now with Learning's golden gifts, 

He surfeits on the cursed necromancy. 

Nothing so sweet as magic is to him, 

Which he prefers before his chiefest bliss. 

The Death of Faustus. 

Faustus alone, — The clock strikes eleven. 

Faust. O Faustus, 
Now hast thou but one bare hour to live, 
And then thou must be damned perpetually. 
Stand still, you ever-moving spheres of heaven, 



MARLOWE. 11 

That time may cease, and midnight never come. 

Fair Nature's eye, rise, rise again, and make 

Perpetual day : or let this hour be put 

A year, a month, a week, a natural day, 

That Faustus may repent, and save his soul. 

lente lente car rite nociis equi. 

The stars move still, time runs, the clock will strike, 

The devil will come, and Faustus must be damned ! 

Oh, I will leap to heaven ! — who pulls me down ? 

See where Christ's blood streams in the firmament : 

One drop of blood will save me ; O my Christ, 

Rend not my heart for naming of my Christ. 

Yet will I call on Him : oh, spare me, Lucifer. 

Where is it now ? 'tis gone ! 

And see, a threat'ning arm, and angry brow ! 

Mountains and hills, come, come and fall on me, 

And hide me from the heavy wrath of Heaven ! 

No ? then I will headlong run into the earth : 

Gape, earth ! Oh, no, it will not harbour me. 

You stars that reigned at my nativity, 

Whose influence have allotted death and hell, 

Now draw up Faustus like a foggy mist 

Into the entrails of yon labouring cloud; 

That when you vomit forth into the air, 

My limbs may issue from your smoky mouths ; 

But let my soul mount, and ascend to heaven. 

\The watch strikes. 
Oh, half the hour is past : 'twill all be past anon. 
Oh, if my soul must suffer for my sin, 
Impose some end to my incessant pain. 
Let Faustus live in hell a thousand years, 
A hundred thousand, and at the last be saved : 



12 G OLDEN LEAVES. 

No end is limited to damned souls. 

Why wert thou not a creature wanting soul ? 

Or why is this immortal that thou hast ? 

O Pythagoras, Metempsychosis, were that true, 

This soul should fly from me, and I be changed 

Into some brutish beast. 

All beasts are happy, for when they die, 

Their souls are soon dissolved in elements ; 

But mine must live still, to be plagued in hell. 

Cursed be the parents that engendered me ! — 

No, Faustus, curse thyself, curse Lucifer, 

That hath deprived thee of the joys of heaven. 

[ The clock strikes twelve 
It strikes, it strikes ! — Now, body, turn to air, 
Or Lucifer will bear thee quick to hell. 
O soul, be changed into small water-drops, 
And fall into the ocean ; ne'er be found. 

Thunder, and enter the Devils. 

O mercy Heaven, look not so fierce on me ! 
Adders and serpents, let me breathe awhile : 
Ugly hell, gape not : come not, Lucifer : 
I'll burn my books : O Mephistophilis ! 



Enter Scholars. 

First Sch. Come, gentlemen, let us go visit Faustus, 
For such a dreadful night was never seen 
Since first the world's creation did begin ; 
Such fearful shrieks and cries were never heard ! 
Pray Heaven the Doctor have escaped the danger. 



MARLOWE. 13 

Sec. Sch. O help us, Heavens ! — see, here are Faustus' 
limbs, 
All torn asunder by the hand of Death ! 

Third Sch. The devil, whom Faustus served, hath torn 
him thus : 
For 'twixt the hours of twelve and one, methought 
I heard him shriek, and call aloud for help ; 
At which same time the house seemed all on fire 
With dreadful horror of these damned fiends. 

Sec. Sch. Well, gentlemen, though Faustus' end be such 
As every Christian heart laments to think on : 
Yet for he was a scholar once admired 
For wondrous knowledge in our German schools, 
We'll give his mangled limbs due burial : 
And all the scholars, clothed in mourning black, 
Shall wait upon his heavy funeral. 

Chorus. Cut is the branch that might have grown full 
straight, 
And burned is Apollo's laurel bough 
That sometime grew within this learned man : 
Faustus is gone ! Regard his hellish fall, 
Whose fiendful fortune may exhort the wise 
Only to wonder at unlawful things : 
Whose deepness doth entice such forward wits 
To practise more than heavenly power permits. 



14 GOLDEN LEAVES. 



EDWARD THE SECOND. 

The King, being deposed, surrenders his croivn into the hands of the 
Bishop of Winchester and the Earl of Leicester, at Killing-worth 
Castle* 

Leu Be patient, good my lord, cease to lament ; 
Imagine Killingworth castle were your court, 
And that you lay for pleasure here a space, 
Not of compulsion or necessity. 

Edzv, Leister, if gentle words might comfort me, 
Thy speeches long ago had eased my sorrows; 
For kind and loving hast thou always been. 
The griefs of private men are soon allayed, 
But not of kings. The forest deer being struck, 
Runs to an herb that closeth up the wounds ; 
But when the imperial lion's flesh is gored, 
He rends and tears it with his wrathful paw, 
And highly scorning that the lowly earth 
Should drink his blood, mounts up to th' air. 
And so it fares with me, whose dauntless mind 
Th' ambitious Mortimer would seek to curb, 
And that unnatural queen, false Isabel, 
That thus hath pent and mewed me in a prison : 
For such outrageous passions claw my soul, 
As with the wings of rancour and disdain 
Full oft am I soaring up to high heaven, 
To 'plain me to the gods against them both. 
But when I call to mind I am a king, 
Methinks I should revenge me of the wrongs 
That Mortimer and Isabel have done. 



* A pi?ncipal manor belonging to the Mortimers. 



MARLOWE. 15 

But what are kings, when regiment is gone, 
But perfect shadows in a sunshine day ? 
My nobles rule, I bear the name of king ; 
I wear the crown, but am controlled by them, 
By Mortimer, and my unconstant queen, 
Who spots my nuptial bed with infamy; 
Whilst I am lodged within this cave of care, 
Where Sorrow at my elbow still attends, 
To company my heart with sad laments, 
That bleeds within me for this strange exchange. 
But tell me, must I now resign my crown, 
To make usurping Mortimer a king ? 

Bisk, Your grace mistakes ; it is for England's good, 
And princely Edward's right, we crave the crown. 

Edtv. No, 'tis for Mortimer, not Edward's head ; 
For he's a lamb, encompassed by wolves, 
Which in a moment will abridge his life. 
But if proud Mortimer do wear this crown, 
Heavens turn it to a blaze of quenchless fire, 
Or like the snaky wreath of Tisiphon, 
Engirt the temples of his hateful head ; 
So shall not England's vines be perished, 
But Edward's name survive, though Edward dies. 

Leu My lord, why waste you thus the time away ? 
They stay your answer : will you yield your crown ? 

Edzu. Ah, Leister, weigh how hardly I can brook 
To lose my crown and kingdom without cause; 
To give ambitious Mortimer my right, 
That like a mountain overwhelms my bliss, 
In which extreme my mind here murthered is. 
But what the Heavens appoint, I must obey : 
Here, take my crown ; the life of Edward too ; 



l6 G OLD EN LEAVES. 

Two kings in England cannot reign at once — 

But stay awhile, let me be king till night, 

That I may gaze upon this glittering crown ; 

So shall my eyes receive their last content, 

My head the latest honour due to it, 

And jointly both yield up their wished right. 

Continue ever, thou celestial sun ; 

Let never silent night possess this clime ; 

Stand still, you watches of the element ; 

All times and seasons, rest you at a stay, 

That Edward may be still fair England's king. 

But day's bright beam doth vanish fast away, 

And needs I must resign my wished crown ; 

Inhuman creatures ! nursed with tiger's milk ! 

Why gape you for your sovereign's overthrow ? 

My diadem I mean, and guiltless life. 

See, monsters, see ! I'll wear my crown again ! 

What ! fear you not the fury of your king ? — 

But, hapless Edward, thou art fondly led : 

They pass not for thy frowns as late they did, 

But seek to make a new-elected king; 

Which fills my mind with strange despairing thoughts, 

Which thoughts are martyred with endless torments, 

And in this torment comfort find I none, 

But that I feel the crown upon my head ; 

And therefore let me wear it yet awhile. 

Enter a Messenger. 

Mess. My lord, the Parliament must have present news ; 
And therefore say, will you resign or no ? 

Edw. I'll not resign ! but whilst I live be king. 
Traitors, begone, and join with Mortimer : 



MAUL OWE. 17 

Elect, conspire, install, do what you will ; 

Their blood and yours shall seal these treacheries ! 

Bisk. This answer we'll return, and so farewell. 

Lei. Call them again, my lord, and speak them fair; 
For if they go, the prince shall lose his right. 

Edzv. Call thou them back, I have no power to speak. 

Lei. My lord, the king is willing to resign. 

Bisk. If he be not, let him choose. 

Edzv. O would I might ! but heaven and earth conspire 
To make me miserable ! — Here, receive my crown ; 
Receive it ? no, these innocent hands of mine 
Shall not be guilty of so foul a crime. 
He of you all that most desires my blood, 
And will be called the murtherer of a king, 
Take it. What, are you moved ? pity you me ? 
Then send for unrelenting Mortimer, 
And Isabel, whose eyes, being turned to steel, 
Will sooner sparkle fire than shed a tear. 
Yet stay, for rather than I will look on them, 
Here, here ! — Now, sweet God of heaven, 
Make me despise this transitory pomp, 
And sit forever enthronized in heaven ! 
Come, Death, and with thy fingers close my eyes, 
Or, if I live, let me forget myself. 

Berkley Castle. — The King is left alone ivith Lightborn, a murderer, 

Edzv. Who's there ? what light is that ? wherefore com'st 

thou ? 
Light. To comfort you, and bring you joyful news. 
Edzv. Small comfort finds poor Edward in thy looks. 
Villain, I know thou com'st to murder me. 

Light. To murder you, my most gracious lord ! 



18 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Far is it from my heart to do you harm. 
The queen sent me to see how you were used, 
For she relents at this your misery ; 
And what eyes can refrain from shedding tears, 
To see a king in this most piteous state ? 

Edzv. Weep'st thou already ? list awhile to me, 
And then thy heart, were it as Gurney's* is, 
Or as Matrevis',* hewn from the Caucasus, 
Yet will it melt, ere I have done my tale. 
This dungeon where they keep me is a sink 
Wherein the filth of all the castle falls. 

Light. O villains ! 

Edzo. And there, in mire and puddle, have I stood 
This ten days' space ; and lest that I should sleep, 
One plays continually upon a drum. 
They give me bread and water, being a king; 
So that, for want of sleep and sustenance, 
My mind's distempered, and my body's numbed, 
And whether I have limbs or no, I know not. 
Oh, would my blood drop out from every vein, 
As doth this water from my tattered robes ! 
Tell Isabel the queen, I looked not thus, 
When for her sake I ran at tilt in France, 
And there unhorsed the Duke of Cleremont. 

Light. Oh, speak no more, my lord ! — this breaks my 
heart. 
Lie on this bed, and rest yourself awhile. 

Edzv. These looks of thine can harbour naught but 
death ! 
I see my tragedy written in thy brows. 

* His keepers. 



MARLOWE. 19 

Yet stay awhile ; forbear thy bloody hand, 
And let me see the stroke before it comes, 
That even then, when I shall lose my life, 
My mind may be more steadfast on my God. 

Light. What means your highness, to mistrust me thus ? 

Edzv. What mean'st thou, to dissemble with me thus ? 

Light. These hands were never stained with innocent 
blood, 
Nor shall they now be tainted with a king's. 

Edzv. Forgive my thought, for having such a thought. 
One jewel have I left — receive thou this. 
Still fear I, and I know not what's the cause, 
But every joint shakes as I give it thee. 
Oh, if thou harbour'st murder in thy heart, 
Let the gift change thy mind, and save thy soul. 
Know that I am a king ; oh, at that name 
I feel a hell of grief ! Where is my crown ? 
Gone, gone ! — and do I still remain alive, ? 

Light. You're overwatched, my lord; — lie down and 
rest. 

Edzv. But that grief keeps me waking, I should sleep ; 
For not these ten days have these eyelids closed. 
Now as I speak they fall, and yet with fear 
Open again. Oh, wherefore sitt'st thou here ? 

Light. If you mistrust me, I'll be gone, my lord. 

Edzv. No, no, for if thou mean'st to murder me, 
Thou wilt return again ; and therefore stay. 

Light. He sleeps. 

Edzv. Oh, let me not die ! yet stay, oh stay awhile ! 

Light. How now, my lord ? 

Edzv. Something still buzzeth in mine ears, 
And tells me if I sleep I never wake ; 



20 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

This fear is that which makes me tremble thus. 
And therefore tell me, wherefore art thou come ? 

Light. To rid thee of thy life. — Matrevis, come ! 

Edzv. I am too weak and feeble to resist. — 
Assist me, sweet God, and receive my soul ! 



ttHlliam Sfjakspeatf. 

ROMEO AND JULIET. 

Mercutio's Description of Queen Mab. 

Mer. O, then, I see, Queen Mab hath been with you. 
She is the fairies' midwife ; and she comes 
In shape no bigger than an agate-stone 
On the fore-finger of an alderman, 
Drawn with a team of little atomies 
Athwart men's noses as they lie asleep : 
Her wagon-spokes made of long spinners' legs; 
The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers ; 
The traces, of the smallest spider's web ; 
The collars, of the moonshine's wat'ry beams : 
Her whip, of cricket's bone ; the lash, of film : 
Her wagoner, a small gray-coated gnat, 
Not half so big as a round little worm 
Pricked from the lazy finger of a maid : 
Her chariot is an empty hazel-nut, 
Made by the joiner squirrel, or old grub, 
Time out of mind the fairies' coach-makers. 
And in this state she gallops night by night 



•SHAKSPEARE. 21 

Through lovers' brains, and then they dream of love : 
On courtiers' knees, that dream on court'sies straight : 
O'er lawyers' fingers, who straight dream on fees : 
O'er ladies' lips, who straight on kisses dream; 
Which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues, 
Because their breaths with sweet-meats tainted are ; 
Sometimes she gallops o'er a courtier's nose, 
And then dreams he of smelling out a suit; 
And sometimes comes she with a tithe-pig's tail, 
Tickling a parson's nose as 'a lies asleep, 
Then dreams he of another benefice : 
Sometimes she driveth o'er a soldier's neck, 
And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats, 
Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades, 
Of healths five fathom deep ; and then anon 
Drums in his ear ; at which, he starts and wakes ; 
And, being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two, 
And sleeps again. This is that very Mab, 
That plats the manes of horses in the night, 
And bakes the elf-locks in foul sluttish hairs, 
Which, once untangled, much misfortune bodes. 
This is the hag, when maids lie on their backs, 
That presses them, and learns them first to bear, 
Making them women of good carriage. 
This, this is she — 

Romeo. Peace, peace, Mercutio, peace ; 
Thou talk'st of nothing. 

Mer. True, I talk of dreams ; 
Which are the children of an idle brain, 
Begot of nothing but vain fantasy ; 
Which is as thin of substance as the air ; 
And more inconstant than the wind, who woos 



22 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Even now the frozen bosom of the north, 
And, being angered, puffs away from thence, 
Turning his face to the dew-dropping south. 

Romeo in the Garden. 

Romeo, He jests at scars that never felt a wound. — 

[Juliet enters above, at a window. 
But soft ! what light through yonder window breaks ? 
It is the east, and Juliet is the sun ! — 
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, 
Who is already sick and pale with grief, 
That thou, her maid, art far more fair than she : 
Be not her maid, since she is envious; 
Her vestal livery is but sick and green, 
And none but fools do wear it ; cast it off. — 
It is my lady ; O, it is my love : 
O, that she knew she were ! — 
She speaks, yet she says nothing ; what of that ? 
Her eye discourses, I will answer it. — 
I am too bold, 'tis not to me she speaks : 
Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven, 
Having some business, do entreat her eyes 
To twinkle in the spheres till their return. 
What if her eyes were there, they in her head ? 
The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars, 
As daylight doth a lamp; her eye in heaven 
Would through the airy region stream so bright, 
That birds would sing, and think it were not night. 
See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand ! 
O, that I were a glove upon that hand, 
That I might touch that cheek ! 

.... She speaks : — 



SHAKSPEARE. 23 

O, speak again, bright angel ! for thou art 
As glorious to this night, being o'er my head, 
As is a winged messenger of heaven 
Unto the white-upturned wond'ring eyes 
Of mortals, that fall back to gaze on him, 
When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds, 
And sails upon the bosom of the air. 

Juliet's Confession of her Love. 

Thou know'st the mask of night is on my face, 

Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek 

For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night. 

Fain would I dwell on form, fain, fain deny 

What I have spoke ; but farewell compliment ! 

Dost thou love me ? I know thou wilt say — Ay ; 

And I will take thy word : yet, if thou swear'st, 

Thou mayst prove false ; at lovers' perjuries, 

They say, Jove laughs. O, gentle Romeo, 

If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully : 

Or, if thou think'st I am too quickly won, 

I'll frown, and be perverse, and say thee nay, 

So thou wilt woo ; but, else, not for the world. 

In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond; 

And therefore thou mayst think my 'haviour light ; 

But trust me, gentleman, I'll prove more true 

Than those that have more cunning to be strange. 

I should have been more strange, I must confess, 

But that thou overheard'st ere I was 'ware, 

My true-love's passion : therefore pardon me ; 

And not impute this yielding to light love, 

Which the dark night hath so discovered. 
2* 



24 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

The Qualities of Herbs and Flowers. 

Friar Lawrence. The gray-eyed morn smiles on the 
frow riing night, 
Checkering the eastern clouds with streaks of light ; 
And flecked darkness like a drunkard reels 
From forth day's pathway, made by Titan's wheels : 
Now, ere the sun advance his burning eye, 
The day to cheer, and night's dank dew to dry, 
I must up-fill this osier cage of ours, 
With baleful weeds, and precious-juiced flowers. 
The earth, that's Nature's mother, is her tomb ; 
What is her burying grave, that is her womb : 
And from her womb children of divers kind 
We, sucking on her natural bosom, rind ; 
Many for many virtues excellent, 
None but for some, and yet all different. 
O, mickle is the powerful grace, that lies 
In herbs, plants, stones, and their true qualities : 
For naught so vile, that on the earth doth live, 
But to the earth some special good doth give ; 
Nor aught so good, but, strained from that fair use, 
Revolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse : 
Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied ; 
And vice sometime's by action dignified. 
Within the infant rind of this small flower 
Poison hath residence, and med'cine power : 
For this, being smelt, with that part cheers each part : 
Being tasted, slays all senses with the heart. 
Two such opposed foes encamp them still 
In man as well as herbs, grace and rude will ; 
And, where the worser is predominant, 
Full soon the canker death eats up that plant. 



; 



1 
SHAKSPEARE. *C 



Romeo and Juliet's Parting. 
(Romeo, having slain Tybalt in combat, is banished.) 



Juliet. Wilt thou be gone ? it is not yet near day : 
It was the nightingale, and not the lark, 
That pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear ; 
Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate-tree : 
Believe me, love, it was the nightingale. 

Romeo. It was the lark, the herald of the morn, 
No nightingale : look, love, what envious streaks 
Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east : 
Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day 
Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain-tops; 
I must be gone and live, or stop and die. 

Jul. Yon light is not day-light, I know it, I : 
It is some meteor that the sun exhales, 
To be to thee this night a torch-bearer, 
And light thee on thy way to Mantua : . 
Therefore stay yet, thou need'st not to be gone. 

Rom. Let me be ta'en, let me be put to death ; 
I am content, so thou wilt have it so. 
I'll say, yon gray is not the morning's eye, 
'Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia's brow ; 
Nor that is not the lark, whose notes do beat 
The vaulty heaven so high above our heads : 
I have more care to stay, than will to go ; — 
Come, death, and welcome ! Juliet wills it so ! — 
How is't, my soul ? let's talk, it is not day. 

Jul. It is, it is ; hie hence, be gone, away ; 
It is the lark that sings so out of tune, 
Straining harsh discords, and unpleasing sharps. 
Some say, the lark makes sweet division ; 



z6 G OLDEN LEAVES. 

This doth not so, for she divideth us : 
Some say, the lark and loathed toad change eyes; 
O, now I would they had changed voices too ! 
Since arm from arm that voice doth us affray, 
Hunting thee hence with hunts-up to the day. 
O, now be gone ; more light and light it grows. 

Rom. More light and light ? — more dark and dark our 
woes. 



OTHELLO. 

Othello's Address to the Senate. 

Most potent, grave, and reverend signiors, 
My very noble and approved good masters, — 
That I have ta'en away this old man's daughter, 
It is most true ; true I have married her ; • 
The very head and front of my offending 
Hath this extent, no more. Rude am I in my speech, 
And little blessed with the set phrase of peace ; 
For since these arms of mine had seven years' pith, 
Till now, some nine moons wasted, they have used 
Their dearest action in the tented field; 
And little of this great world can I speak, 
More than pertains to feats of broil and battle ; 
And therefore little shall I grace my cause, 
In speaking for myself: Yet, by your gracious patience, 
I will a round, unvarnished tale deliver 
Of my whole course of love ; what drugs, what charms, 
What conjuration, and what mighty magic 
(For such proceeding I am charged withal), 
I won his daughter with. 



SHAK SPEAR E. 27 

.... I do beseech you, 
Send for the lady to the Sagittary, 
And let her speak of me before her father : 
If you do find me foul in her report, 
The trust, the office, I do hold of you, 
Not only take away, but let your sentence 
Even fall upon my life. 

Duke. Fetch Desdemona hither. 

Oth. Ancient, conduct them ; you best know the place. 
And, till she come, as truly as to Heaven 
I do confess the vices of my blood, 
So justly to your grave ears I'll present 
How I did thrive in this fair lady's love, 
And she in mine. 

Her father loved me ; oft invited me ; 
Still questioned me the story of my life, 
From year to year ; the battles, sieges, fortunes, 
That I have passed. 

I ran it through, even from my boyish days, 
To the very moment that he bade me tell it. 
Wherein I spoke of most disastrous chances, 
Of moving accidents, by flood and field ; 
Of hair-breadth 'scapes i' the imminent deadly breach ; 
Of being taken by the insolent foe, 
And sold to slavery ; of my redemption thence, 
And portance in my travel's history : 
Wherein of antres vast, and deserts idle, 
Rough quarries, rocks, and hills whose heads touch heaven, 
It was my hint to speak, such was the process ; 
And of the Cannibals that each other eat, 
The Anthropophagi, and men whose heads 
Do grow beneath their shoulders. These things to hear, 



28 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Would Desdemona seriously incline ; 

But still the house-affairs would draw her thence; 

Which ever as she could with haste dispatch, 

She'd come again, and with a greedy ear 

Devour up my discourse : which I observing, 

Took once a pliant hour; and found good means 

To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart, 

That I would all my pilgrimage dilate, 

Whereof by parcels she had something heard, 

But not intentively : I did consent ; 

And often did beguile her of her tears, 

When I did speak of some distressful stroke, 

That my youth suffered. My story being done, 

She gave me for my pains a world of sighs : 

She swore — In faith, 'twas strange, 'twas passing strange ; 

'Twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous pitiful : 

She wished, she had not heard it ; yet she wished 

That Heaven had made her such a man : she thanked me ; 

And bade me, if I had a friend that loved her, 

I should but teach him how to tell my story, 

And that would woo her. Upon this hint, I spake : 

She loved me for the dangers I had passed ; 

And I loved her, that she did pity them. 

This only is the witchcraft I have used ; 

Here comes the lady, let her witness it. 

Othello's Lamentation. 

O now, forever, 
Farewell the tranquil mind ! farewell, content ! 
Farewell the plumed troop, and the big wars 
That make ambition virtue ! O, farewell ! 
Farewell the neighing steed, and the shrill trump, 



SHAK SPEAR E. 29 

The spirit-stirring drum, the ear-piercing fife, 
The royal banner; and all quality, 
Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war ! 
And O, you mortal engines, whose rude throats 
The immortal Jove's dread clamours counterfeit, 
Farewell ! Othello's occupation's gone ! 

Othello's Soliloquy before killing Desdemona. 

It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul, — 

Let me not name it to you, you chaste stars ! — 

It is the cause. — Yet Til not shed her blood ; 

Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow, 

And smooth as monumental alabaster. 

Yet she must die, else she'll betray more men. 

Put out the light, and then put out the light : 

If I quench thee, thou flaming minister, 

I can again thy former light restore, 

Should I repent me : — but once put out thine, 

Thou cunning'st pattern of excelling nature, 

I know not where is that Promethean heat, 

That can thy light relume. When I have plucked thy rose, 

I cannot give it vital growth again ; 

It needs must wither : I'll smell it on the tree. 

[Kisses her. 
O, balmy breath, that dost almost persuade 

Justice to break her sword ! — One more, one more. — 

Be thus when thou art dead, and I will kill thee, 

And love thee after : — One more, and this the last : 

So sweet was ne'er so fatal. I must weep, 

But they are cruel tears : This sorrow's heavenly ; 

It strikes, where it doth love. 



30 GOLDEN LEAVES. 



HAMLET. 

Hamlet's Soliloquy on his Mothers Marriage. 

O, that this too, too solid flesh would melt, 
Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew ! 
Or that the Everlasting had not fixed 
His canon 'gainst self-slaughter ! O God ! O God ! 
How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable, 
Seem to me all the uses of this world ! 
Fie on't ! O fie ! 'tis an unweeded garden, 
That grows to seed ; things rank, and gross in nature, 
Possess it merely. That it should come to this ! 
But two months dead ! — nay, not so much, not two : 
So excellent a king ; that was, to this, 
Hyperion to a satyr : so loving to my mother, 
That he might not beteem the winds of heaven 
Visit her face too roughly. Heaven and earth ! 
Must I remember ? why, she would hang on him, 
As if increase of appetite had grown 
By what it fed on : and yet within a month — 
Let me not think on't ; — Frailty, thy name is woman ! 
A little month ; or ere those shoes were old, 
With which she followed my poor father's body, 
Like Niobe, all tears ; — why she, even she, — 
O Heaven ! a beast, chat wants discourse of reason., 
Would have mourned longer, — married with my uncle, 
My father's brother; but no more like my father, 
Than I to Hercules : within a month ; 
Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears 
Had left the flushing in her galled eyes, 
She married 



S/IAKS PEABE. 31 

It is not, nor it cannot come to, good ; 

But break, my heart : for I must hold my tongue ! 

On the Immortality of the Soul. 

To be, or not to be, that is the question : 
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind, to suffer 
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, 
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, 
And by opposing end them ? To die, — to sleep, — 
No more ; and, by a sleep, to say we end 
The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks 
That flesh is heir to, — 'tis a consummation 
Devoutly to be wished. To die,— to sleep ; — 
To sleep ! perchance to dream ; — ay, there's the rub ; 
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, 
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, 
Must give us pause : there's the respect, 
That makes calamity of so long life : 
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, 
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, 
The pangs of disprized love, the law's delay, 
The insolence of office, and the spurns 
That patient merit of the unworthy takes, 
When he himself might his quietus make 
With a bare bodkin ? who would these fardels bear, 
To grunt and sweat under a weary life ; 
But that the dread of something after death, 
The undiscovered country, from whose bourn 
No traveller returns, puzzles the will ; 
And makes us rather bear those ills we have, 
Than fly to others that we know not of? 
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all : 



32 G OLDEN LEAVES. 

And thus the native hue of resolution 
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought ; 
And enterprises of great pith and moment, 
With this regard, their currents turn awry, 
And lose the name of action. 

Hamlet's Madness. 

Ophelia. O, what a noble mind is here o'erthrown ! 
The courtier's, soldier's, scholar's eye, tongue, sword ; 
The expectancy and rose of the fair state, 
The glass of fashion, and the mould of form, 
The observed of all observers ! quite, quite down ! 
And I, of ladies most deject and wretched, 
That sucked the honey of his music vows, 
Now see that noble and most sovereign reason, 
Like sweet bells jangled, out of tune and harsh ; 
That unmatched form and feature of blown youths 
Blasted with ecstasy : O, woe is me ! 
To have seen what I have seen, see what I see ! 

Hamlet's Friendship for Horatio. 

Hamlet. Horatio, thou art e'en as just a man 
As e'er my conversation coped withal. 
Nay, do not think I flatter : 
For what advancement may I hope from thee, 
That no revenue hast, but thy good spirits, 
To feed and clothe thee ? Why should the. poor be flattered ? 
No, let the candied tongue lick absurd pomp ; 
And crook the pregnant hinges of the knee, 
Where thrift may follow fawning. Dost thou hear ? 
Since my dear soul was mistress of her choice, 
And could of men distinguish her election, 



SHAKSPEARE. 33 

She hath sealed thee for herself: for thou hast been 

As one, in suffering all, that suffers nothing; 

A man, that fortune's buffets and rewards 

Hast ta'en with equal thanks : and blest are those, 

Whose blood and judgment are so well co-mingled, 

That they are not a pipe for Fortune's finger 

To sound what stop she please : give me that man 

That is not passion's slave, and I will wear him 

In my heart's core, ay, in my heart of heart, 

As I do thee. 



KING LEAR. 

Cordelia's Love. 
Good, my lord, 
You have begot me, bred me, loved me : I 
Return those duties back as are right fit/ 
Obey you, love you, and most honour you. 
Why have my sisters husbands, if they say, 
They love you, all ? Haply, when I shall wed, 
That lord, whose hand must take my plight, shall carry 
Half my love with him, half my care, and duty : 
Sure, I shall never marry like my sisters, 
To love my father all. 

Lear's Curse on his Daughter Goneril. 

Hear, Nature, 
Dear goddess, hear ! Suspend thy purpose, if 
Thou didst intend to make this creature fruitful. 
Into her womb convey sterility ! 
Dry up in her the organs of increase ; 



34 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

And from her derogate body never spring 
A babe to honour her ! If she must teem, 
Create her child of spleen ; that it may live, 
And be a thwart disnatured torment to her ! 
Let it stamp wrinkles in her brow of youth ; 
With cadent tears fret channels in her cheeks; 
Turn all her mother's pains, and benefits, 
To laughter and contempt ; that she may feel 
How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is 
To have a thankless child ! 

All things superfluous. 

O, reason not the need : our basest beggars 
Are in the poorest thing superfluous : 
Allow not nature more than nature needs, 
Man's life is cheap as beast's : thou art a lady ; 
If only to go warm were gorgeous, 
Why, nature needs not what thou gorgeous wear'st, 
Which scarcely keeps thee warm. — But, for true need, 
You Heavens, give me that patience, patience I need ! 
You see me here, you gods, a poor old man, 
As full of grief as age ; wretched in both ! 
If it be you that stir these daughters' hearts 
Against their father, fool me not so much 
To bear it tamely ; touch me with noble anger ! 
O, let not women's weapons, water-drops, 
Stain my man's cheeks ! — No, you unnatural hags, 
I will have such revenges on you both, 
That all the world shall — 1 will do such things, — 
What they are, yet I know not ; but they shall be 
The terrors of the earth. You think, I'll weep; 
No, I'll not weep ; — 



SIIAKSPEARE. 35 

I have full cause of weeping ; but this heart 
Shall break into a hundred thousand flaws, 
Or ere I'll weep : — O, fool, I shall go mad ! 

Lear in the Storm. 

Blow, wind, and crack your cheeks ! rage ! blow ! 
You cataracts, and hurricanoes, spout 
Till you have drenched our steeples, drowned the cocks ! 
You sulphurous and thought-executing fires, 
Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunder-bolts, 
Singe my white head ! And thou, all-shaking thunder, 
Strike flat the thick rotundity o' the world ! 
Crack nature's moulds, all germens spill at once, 
That make ingrateful man ! . . . . 
Rumble thy belly-full ! Spit, fire ! spout, rain ! 
Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daughters : 
I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness, 
I never gave you kingdom, called you children, 
You owe me no subscription; why then/ let fall 
Your horrible pleasure ; here I stand, your slave, 
A poor, infirm, weak, and despised old man : 
But yet I call you servile ministers, 
That have with two pernicious daughters joined 
Your high engendered battles, 'gainst a head 
So old and white as this. O ! O ! 'tis foul ! 

^ * * H« ♦ * 

Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are, 
That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm, 
How shall your houseless heads, and unfed sides, 
Your looped and windowed raggedness, defend you 
From seasons such as these ? O, I have ta'en 
Too little care of this ! Take physic, pomp ; 



36 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel ; 
That thou mayst shape the superflux to them, 
And show the heavens more just. 

Vices concealed by Greatness. 

Through tattered clothes small vices do appear ; 
Robes, and furred gowns, hide all. Plate sin with gold, 
And the strong lance of justice hurtless breaks : 
Arm it in rags, a pigmy's straw doth pierce it. 



AS YOU LIKE IT. 

The banished Duke and his Lords in the Forest of Arden. 

Duke. Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile. 
Hath not old custom made this life more sweet 
Than that of painted pomp ? Are not these woods 
More free from peril than the envious court ? 
Here feel we but the penalty of Adam, 
The seasons' difference ; as the icy fang, 
And churlish chiding of the winter's wind, 
Which when it bites and blows upon my body, 
Even till I shrink with cold, I smile, and say, — 
This is no flattery : these are counsellors 
That feelingly persuade me what I am. 
Sweet are the uses of adversity ; 
Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, 
Wears yet a precious jewel in his head : 
And this our life, exempt from public haunt, 
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, 
Sermons in stones, and good in every thing. 



SHAKSPEARE. 7j 

Amiens, I would not change it. Happy is your grace, 
That can translate the stubbornness of fortune 
Into so quiet and so sweet a style. 

Duke. Come, shall we go and kill us venison ? 
And yet it irks me, the poor dappled fools, — 
Being native burghers of this desert city, — 
Should, in their own confines, with forked heads 
Have their round haunches gored. 

Lord. Indeed, my lord, 
The melancholy Jaques grieves at that; 
And, in that kind, swears you do more usurp 
Than doth your brother that hath banished you. 
To-day, my lord of Amiens and myself 
Did steal behind him, as he lay along 
Under an oak, whose antique root peeps out 
Upon the brook that brawls along this wood ; 
To the which place a poor sequestered stag, 
That from the hunter's aim had ta'en a hurt, 
Did come to languish ; and indeed, my lord, 
The wretched animal heaved forth such groans, 
That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat 
Almost to bursting ; and the big round tears 
Coursed one another down his innocent nose, 
In piteous chase : and thus, the hairy fool, 
Much marked of the melancholy Jaques, 
Stood on the extremest verge of the swift brook, 
Augmenting it with tears. 

Rosalind's Points of a Lover. 

A lean cheek ; which you have not : a blue eye, and 
sunken ; which you have not : an unquestionable spirit ; 
which you have not : a beard neglected ; which you have 



38 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

not : — but I pardon you for that ; for, simply, your having 
no beard is a younger brother's revenue. — Then your hose 
should be ungartered, your bonnet unbanded, your sleeve 
unbuttoned, your shoe untied, and every thing about you 
demonstrating a careless desolation. But you are no such 
man ; you are rather point-device in your accoutrements ; 
as loving yourself, than seeming the lover of any other. 

Hoiv Rosalind cures Love. 

Rosalind. Love is merely a madness ; and, I tell you, 
deserves as well a dark house and a whip, as madmen do ; 
and the reason why they are not so punished and cured, is, 
that the lunacy is so ordinary, that the whippers are in love 
too. Yet I profess curing it by counsel. 

Orlando. Did you ever cure any so ? 

Ros. Yes, one ; and in this manner. He was to imagine 
me his love, his mistress ; and I set him every day to woo 
me : at which time would I, being but a moonish youth, 
grieve, be effeminate, changeable, longing, and liking ; 
proud, fantastical, apish, shallow, inconstant, full of tears, 
full of smiles ; for every passion something, and for no 
passion truly any thing, as boys and women are for the 
most part cattle of this colour : would now like him, now 
loathe him ; then entertain him, then forswear him ; now 
weep for him, then spit at him; that I drave my suitor 
from his mad humour of love, to a living humour of mad- 
ness ; which was, to forswear the full stream of the world, 
and to live in a nook merely monastic. And thus I cured 
him ; and this way will I take upon me to wash your liver 
as clean as a sound sheep's heart, that there shall not be 
one spot of love in't. 



SHAKSPEARE. 39 

Dying for Love. 

Rosalind. The poor world is almost six thousand years 
old, and in all this time there was not any man died in his 
own person, videlicet, in a love-cause. Troilus had his 
brains dashed out with a Grecian club ; yet he did what 
he could to die before ; and he is one of the patterns of 
love. Leander, he would have lived many a fair year, 
though Hero had turned nun, if it had not been for a hot 
midsummer night : for, good youth, he went but forth to 
wash him in the Hellespont, and, being taken with the 
cramp, was drowned ; and the foolish chroniclers of that 
age found it was— Hero of Sestos. But these are all lies; 
men have died from time to time, and worms have eaten 
them, but not for love. 

Jacques's Melancholy. 

I have neither the scholar's melancholy, which is emula- 
tion ; nor the musician's, which is fantastical; nor the 
courtier's, which is proud ; nor the soldier's, which is am- 
bitious ; nor the lawyer's, which is politic ; nor the lady's, 
which is nice ; nor the lover's, which is all these : but it is 
a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples, 
extracted from many objects; and, indeed, the sundry con- 
templation of my travels, in which my often rumination 
wraps me, is a most humorous sadness. 

The Seven Ages of Man. 

All the world's a stage, 
And all the men and women merely players : 
They have their exits, and their entrances ; 
And one man in his time plays many parts, 



+o GOLDEN LEAVES. 

His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant, 

Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms ; 

And then, the whining schoolboy, with his satchel, 

And shining morning face, creeping like snail 

Unwillingly to school. And then, the lover ; 

Sighing like furnace, with a woful ballad 

Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier ; 

Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard ; 

Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel ; 

Seeking the bubble reputation 

Even at the cannon's mouth. And then, the justice, 

In fair round belly, with good capon lined, 

With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut, 

Full of wise saws and modern instances, 

And so he plays his part. The sixth stage shifts 

Into the lean and slippered pantaloon, 

With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side ; 

His youthful hose well saved a world too wide 

For his shrunk shank ; and his big manly voice, 

Turning again toward childish treble, pipes 

And whistles in his sound : Last scene of all, 

That ends this strange eventful history, 

Is second childishness, and mere oblivion ; 

Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans every thing. 



TWELFTH NIGHT. 

Music the Food of Love. 
If music be the food of love, play on, 
Give me excess of it ; that, surfeiting, 
The appetite may sicken, and so die. — 



: 



1 

SIIAKSPEARE. 41 

That strain again ; — it had a dying fall : 

Oh, it came o'er my ear like the sweet south, 

That breathes upon a bank of violets, 

Stealing, and giving odour. — Enough; no more; 

'Tis not so sweet now, as it was before. 

O spirit of love, how quick and fresh art thou ! 

That, notwithstanding thy capacity 

Receiveth as the sea, naught enters there, 

Of what validity and pitch soever, 

But falls into abatement and low price, 

Even in a minute ! so full of shapes is fancy, 

That it alone is high-fantastical. 

Woman's Love. 

Duke, Cesario. 

Duke, There is no woman's sides, 
Can bide the beating of so strong a passion 
As love doth give my heart : no woman's heart 
So big, to hold so much ; they lack retention. 
Alas, their love may be called appetite, — 
No motion of the liver, but the palate, — 
That suffer surfeit, cloyment, and revolt ; 
But mine is all as hungry as the sea, 
And can digest as much : make no compare 
Between that love a woman can bear me, 
And that I owe Olivia. 

Cesario, Ay, but I know, — 

Duke, What dost thou know ? 

Cesario. Too well what love women to men may owe : 
In faith, they are as true of heart as we. 
My father had a daughter loved a man, 



42 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

As it might be, perhaps, were I a woman, 
I should your lordship. 

Duke. And what's her history ? 

Cesario. A blank, my lord : she never told her love, 
But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud, 
Feed on her damask cheek :. she pined in thought ; 
And with a green and yellow melancholy, 
She sat like patience on a monument, 
Smiling at grief. Was not this love, indeed ? 
We men may say more, swear more ; but, indeed, 
Our shows are more than will ; for still we prove 
Much in our vows, but little in our love. 



MACBETH. 

The Character of Macbeth. 

Lady Macbeth. . . . Glamis thou art, and Cawdor ; and 
shalt be 
What thou art promised. — Yet do I fear thy nature ; 
It is too full o' the milk of human kindness, 
To catch the nearest way. Thou wouldst be great ; 
Art not without ambition ; but without 
The illness should attend it. What thou wouldst highly, 
That wouldst thou holily ; wouldst not play false, 
And yet wouldst wrongly win : thou'dst have, great Glamis, 
That which cries, Thus thou must do, if thou have it ; 
And that which rather thou dost fear to do, 
Than wishest should be undone. Hie thee hither, 
That I may pour my spirits in thine ear; 
And chastise, with the valour of my tongue, 



SHAKSPEARE. 43 

All that impedes thee from the golden round, 
Which fate and metaphysical aid doth seem 
To have thee crowned withal. 

Macbeth's Soliloquy on Duncan's Murder. 

If it were done, when 'tis done, then 'twere well 
It were done quickly. If the assassination 
Could trammel up the consequence, and catch, 
With his surcease, success; that but this blow 
Might be the be-all and the end-all here, 
But here, upon this bank and shoal of time, — 
We'd jump the life to come. — But, in these cases, 
We still have judgment here ; that we but teach 
Bloody instructions, which, being taught, return 
To plague the inventor. This even-handed justice 
Commends the ingredients of our poisoned chalice 
To our own lips. He's here in double trust : 
First, as I am his kinsman and his subject, 
Strong both against the deed ; then, as his host, 
Who should against his murderer shut the door, 
Not bear the knife myself. Besides, this Duncan 
Hath borne his faculties so meek, hath been 
So clear in his great office, that his virtues 
Will plead like angels, trumpet-tongued, against 
The deep damnation of his taking-off; 
And pity, like a naked new-born babe 
Striding the blast, or heaven's cherubin horsed 
Upon the sightless couriers of the air, 
Shall blow the horrid deed in every eye, 
That tears shall drown the wind. — I have no spur 
To prick the sides of my intent, but only 



44 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself^ 
And falls on the other side. 

Outliving Reputation. 

I have lived long enough : my way of life 
Is fall'n into the sear, the y-ellow leaf: 
And that which should accompany old age, 
As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends, 
I must not look to have ; but, in their stead, 
Curses, not loud, but deep, mouth-honour, breath 
Which the poor heart would fain deny, but dare not. 

To-morroiv. 

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, 
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, 
To the last syllable of recorded time ; 
And all our yesterdays, have lighted fools 
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle ! 
Life's but a walking shadow : a poor player, 
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, 
And then is heard no more : it is a tale 
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, 
Signifying nothing. 



MIDSUMMER NIGHTS DREAM. 

Youthful Friendship. 

Injurious Hermia ! most ungraceful maid ! 
Have you consrired, have you with these contrived 
To bait me with this foul derision ? 
Is all the counsel, that we two have shared, 



SHAKSPEARE. 45 

The sisters' vows, the hours that we have spent, 

When we have chid the hasty-footed time 

For parting us, — O, and is all forgot ? 

All school-days' friendship, childhood innocence ? 

We, Hermia, like two artificial gods, 

Have with our neelds created both one flower, 

Both on one sampler, sitting on one cushion, 

Both warbling of one song, both in one key ; 

As if our hands, our sides, voices, and minds, 

Had been incorporate. So we grew together, 

Like to a double-cherry, seeming parted ; 

But yet a union in partition, 

Two lovely berries moulded on one stem : 

So, with two seeming bodies, but one heart ; 

Two of the first, like coats in heraldry, 

Due but to one, and crowned with one crest. 

Poetic Imaginings. 

Lovers, and madmen, have such seething brains, 
Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend 
More than cool reason ever comprehends. 
The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, 
Are of imagination all compact : 
One sees more devils than vast hell can hold; 
That is, the madman : the lover, all as frantic, 
Sees Helen's beauty in a brow of Egypt : 
The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling, 
Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven ; 
And, as imagination bodies forth 
The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen 
Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing 
A local habitation, and a name. 



46 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 

A Proud Woman. 

Hero and Ursula. 

Hero, Nature never framed a woman's heart 
Of prouder stuff than that of Beatrice : 
Disdain and scorn ride sparkling in her eyes, 
Misprising what they look on ; and her wit 
Values itself so highly, that to her 
All matter else seems weak : she cannot love, 
Nor take no shape nor project of affection, 
She is so self-endeared. 

Urs. Sure, I think so; 
And therefore, certainly, it were not good 
She knew his love, lest she make sport at it. 

Hero. Why, you speak truth : I never yet saw man, 
How wise, how noble, young, how rarely featured, 
But she would spell him backward : if fair-faced, 
She'd swear, the gentleman should be her sister; 
If black, why, Nature, drawing of an antic, 
Made a foul blot ; if tall, a lance ill-headed ; 
If low, an agate very vilely cut ; 
If speaking, why, a vane blown with all winds ; 
If silent, why, a block moved with none. 
So turns she every man the wrong side out; 
And never gives to truth and virtue, that 
Which simpleness and merit purchaseth. 

Urs. Sure, sure, such carping is not commendable. 

Hero. No : not to be so odd, and from all fashions, 
As Beatrice is, cannot be commendable : 
But who dare tell her so ? If I should speak, 



SHAKSPEARE. 47 

She'd mock me into air ; O, she would laugh me 
Out of myself, press me to death with wit. 
Therefore let Benedick, like covered fire, 
Consume away in sighs, waste inwardly : 
It were a better death than die with mocks ; 
Which is as bad as die with tickling. 



KING JOHN. 

Maternal Grief and Love. 

(Arthur, Son of Geffrey, elder Brother of King John, and rightful 
Heir to the Throne cf England, has been taken Prisoner by the Eng- 
lish.) 

King Philip of France, Cardinal Pandulph, Constance, 
mother of Arthur. 

K. Philip. Look, who comes here ! a grave unto a soul ; 
Holding the eternal spirit, against her will, 
In the vile prison of afflicted breath : — 
I pr'ythee, lady, go away with me. 

Constance. Lo, now ! now see the issue of your peace ! 

K. Phi. Patience, good lady ! comfort, gentle Constance ! 

Const. No, I defy all counsel, all redress, 
But that which ends all counsel, true redress, 
Death, death : — O amiable, lovely death ! 
Thou odoriferous stench ! sound rottenness ! 
Arise forth from the couch of lasting night, 
Thou hate and terror to prosperity, 
And I will kiss thy detestable bones; 
And put my eyeballs in thy vaulty brows ; 
And ring these fingers with thy household worms ; 
And stop this gap of breath with fulsome dust, 
3* 



4-8 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

And be a carrion monster like thyself: 
Come, grin on me, and I will think thou smil'st, 
And buss thee as thy wife ! Misery's love, 
O, come to me ! 

K. Phi. O fair affliction, peace. 

Const. No, no, I will not, having breath to cry : — 
O, that my tongue were in the thunder's mouth ! 
Then with a passion would I shake the world ; 
And rouse from sleep that fell anatomy, 
Which cannot hear a lady's feeble voice, 
Which scorns a modern invocation. 

Pandulph. Lady, you utter madness, and not sorrow. 

Const. Thou art not holy, to belie me so ; 
I am not mad : this hair I tear, is mine ; 
My name is Constance ; I was Geffrey's wife ; 
Young Arthur is my son, and he is lost : 
I am not mad; — I would to Heaven, I were ! 
For then, 'tis like I should forget myself: 
O, if I could, what grief should I forget ! — 
Preach some philosophy to make me mad, 
And thou shalt be canonized, cardinal : 
For, not being mad, but sensible of grief, 
My reasonable part produces reason 
How I may be delivered of these woes, 
And teaches me to kill or hang myself; 
If I were mad, I should forget my son ; 
Or madly think, a babe of clouts were he : 
I am not mad; too well, too well I feel 
The different plague of each calamity. 

K. Phi. Bind up those tresses. 

Const. Yes, that I will; and wherefore will I do ir ? 
I tore them from their bonds ; and cried aloud, 



SHAKSPEARE. 49 

\ 
that these hands could so redeem my son, 

As they have given these hairs their liberty I 

But now I envy at their liberty, 

And will again commit them to their bonds, 

Because my poor child is a prisoner. — 

And, father cardinal, I have heard you say, 

That we shall see and know our friends in heaven : 

If that be true, I shall see my boy again ; 

For, since the birth of Cain, the first male child, 

To him that did but yesterday suspire, 

There was not such a gracious creature born. 

But now will canker-sorrow eat my bud, 

And chase the native beauty from his cheek, 

And he will look as hollow as a ghost ; 

As dim and meagre as an ague's fit; 

And so he'll die ; and, rising so again, 

When I shall meet him in the court of heaven 

I shall not know him : therefore, never, .never 

Must I behold my pretty Arthur more. 

Pand. You hold too heinous a respect of grief. 

Const. He talks to me, that never had a son. 

K. Phi. You are as fond of grie£ as of your child. 

Const. Grief fills the room up of my absent child, 
Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me ; 
Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words, 
Remembers me of all his gracious parts, 
Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form ; 
Then, have I reason to be fond of grief. 
Fare you well : had you such a loss as I, 
I could give better comfort than you do. — 
I will not keep this form upon my head, 

[Tearing off her head-dre^. 



50 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

When there is such disorder in my wit. 
O Lord ! my boy, my Arthur, my fair son ! 
My life, my joy, my food, my all the world ! 
My widow-comfort, and my sorrows' cure ! 



KING HENRY V. 
Henry as King. 

Archbishop of Canterbury and Bishop of Ely. 

Canterbury. The king is full of grace, and fair regard. 

Ely. And a true lover of the holy Church. 

Cant. The courses of his youth promised it not. 
The breath no sooner left his father's body, 
But that his wildness, mortified in him, 
Seemed to die too : yea, at that very moment, 
Consideration like an angel came, 
And whipped the offending Adam out of him ; 
Leaving his body as a paradise, 
To envelop and contain celestial spirits. 
Never was such a sudden scholar made : 
Never came reformation in a flood, 
With such a heady current, scouring faults ; 
Nor never Hydra-headed wilfulness 
So soon did lose his seat, and all at once, 
As in this king. 

Ely. We are blessed in the change. 

Cant. Hear him but reason in divinity, 
And, all-admiring, with an inward wish 
You would desire, the king were made a prelate : 
Hear him debate of commonwealth affairs, 
You would say, — it hath been all-in-all his study : 



SHAK SPEAR E. 51 

List his discourse of war, and you shall hear 

A fearful battle rendered you in music : 

Turn him to any cause of policy, 

The Gordian knot of it he will unloose, 

Familiar as his garter ; that, when he speaks, 

The air, a chartered libertine, is still, 

And the mute wonder lurketh in men's ears, 

To steal his sweet and honeyed sentences ; 

So that the art and practic part of life 

Must be the mistress to this theoric : 

Which is a wonder, how his grace should glean it, 

Since his addiction was to courses vain : 

His companies unlettered, rude, and shallow ; 

His hours filled up with riots, banquets, sports ; 

And never noted in him any study, 

Any retirement, any sequestration 

From open haunts and popularity. 

Ely. The strawberry grows underneath the nettle : 
And wholesome berries thrive and ripen best, 
Neighboured by fruit of baser quality : 
And so the prince obscured his contemplation 
Under the veil of wildness ; which, no doubt, 
Grew like the summer grass, fastest by night, 
Unseen, yet crescive in his faculty. 

Night before the Battle of Agincourt. 

Now entertain conjecture of a time, 
When creeping murmur, and the poring dark, 
Fills the wide vessel of the universe. 
From camp to camp, through the foul womb of night 
The hum of either army stilly sounds, 
That the fixed sentinels almost receive 



52 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

The secret whispers of each other's watch : 

Fire answers fire : and through their paly flames 

Each battle sees the other's umbered face : 

Steed threatens steed, in high and boastful neighs 

Piercing the night's dull ear; and from the tents, 

The armourers, accomplishing the knights, 

With busy hammers closing rivets up, 

Give dreadful note of preparation. 

The country cocks do crow, the clocks do toll, 

And the third hour of drowsy morning name. 

Proud of their numbers, and secure in soul, 

The confident and over-lusty French 

Do the low-rated English play at dice ; 

And chide the cripple tardy-gaited Night, 

Who, like a foul and ugly witch, doth limp 

So tediously away. The poor condemned English, 

Like sacrifices, by their watchful fires 

Sit patiently, and inly ruminate 

The morning's danger; and their gesture sad, 

Investing lank-lean cheeks, and war-worn coats, 

Presenteth them unto the gazing moon 

So many horrid ghosts. O, now, who will behold 

The royal captain of this ruined band, 

Walking from watch to watch, from tent to tent, 

Let him cry — Praise and glory on his head ! 

For forth he goes, and visits all his host ; 

Bids them good-morrow, with a modest smile : 

And calls them — brothers, friends, and countrymen. 

Upon his royal face there is no note, 

How dread an army hath enrounded him ; 

Nor doth he dedicate one jot of colour 

Unto the weary and all-watched night : 



SHAKSPEARE. 53 

But freshly looks, and over-bears attaint, 
With cheerful semblance, and sweet majesty; 
That every wretch, pining and pale before, 
Beholding him, plucks comfort from his looks. . . . 



KING HENRY VI. 

Henry's Reflections on his Fallen State. 

.... Would I were dead ! if God's good will were so : 
For what is in this world but grief and woe ? 
O God ! methinks it were a happy life, 
To be no better than a homely swain ; 
To sit upon a hill, as I do now, 
To carve out dials quaintly, point by point, 
Thereby to see the minutes how they run : 
How many make the hour full complete, 
How many hours bring about the day, . 
How many days will finish up the year, 
How many years a mortal man may live. 
When this is known, then to divide the times : 
So many hours must I tend my flock ; 
So many hours must I take my rest ; 
So many hours must I contemplate ; 
So many hours must I sport myself; 
So many days my ewes have been with young ; 
So many weeks ere the poor fools will yean ; 
So many years ere I shall shear the fleece; 
So minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years, 
Passed over to the end they were created, 
Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave. 
Ah, what a life were this ! how sweet ! how lovely ! 



54 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Gives not the hawthorn-bush a sweeter shade 

To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep, 

Than doth a rich embroidered canopy 

To kings, that fear their subjects* treachery? 

O, yes it doth ; a thousand-fold it doth. 

And to conclude, — the shepherd's homely curds, 

His cold thin drink out of his leather bottle, 

His wonted sleep under a fresh tree's shade, 

All which secure and sweetly he enjoys, 

Is far beyond a prince's delicates, 

His viands sparkling in a golden cup, 

His body couched in a curious bed, 

When care, mistrust, and treason wait on him. 



KING HENRY VIII. 

The Fall of Wolsey. 

Cardinal Wolsey, Cromwell. 

Wolsey. . . Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness ! 
This is the state of man : to-day he puts forth 
The tender leaves of hope ; to-morrow blossoms, 
And bears his blushing honours thick upon him : 
The third day, comes a frost, a killing frost ; 
And, — when he thinks, good easy man, full surely 
His greatness is a ripening, — nips his root, 
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured, 
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, 
This many summers in a sea of glory ; 
But far beyond my depth : my high-blown pride 
At length broke under me ; and now has left me, 
Weary, and old with service, to the mercy 



SHAKSPEARE. 55 

Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me. 
Vain pomp, and glory of this world, I hate ye ; 
I feel my heart new opened : O, how wretched 
Is that poor man, that hangs on princes' favours ! 
There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to, 
That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin, 
More pangs and fears than wars or women have ; 
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, 
Never to hope again. — 

Enter Cromwell. 

Why, how now, Cromwell ? 

Crom. I have no power to speak, Sir. 

WoL What, amazed 
At my misfortunes? can thy spirit wonder, 
A great man should decline ? Nay, an' you weep, 
I am fallen indeed. 

****** 

Crom, O my lord, 
Must I then leave you ? Must I needs forego 
So good, so noble, and so true a master ? 
Bear witness, all that have not hearts of iron, 
With what a sorrow Cromwell leaves his lord. — 
The king shall have my service ; but my prayers 
Forever, and forever, shall be yours. 

WoL Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear 
In all my miseries; but thou hast forced me 
Out of thy honest truth to play the woman. 
Let's dry our eyes : and thus far hear me, Cromwell ; 
And, — when I am forgotten, as I shall be ; 
And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention 
O^ me more must be heard of, — say, I taught thee, 



56 G OLDEN LEAVES. 

Say, Wolsey, — that once trod the ways of glory, 

And sounded all the depths and shoals of honour, — 

Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in ; 

A sure and safe one, though thy master missed it. 

Mark but my fall, and that that ruined me. 

Cromwell, I charge thee, .fling away ambition; 

By that sin fell the angels, how can man then, 

The image of his Maker, hope to win by't ? 

Love thyself last : cherish those hearts that hate thee ; 

Corruption wins not more than honesty ; 

Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace, 

To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not : 

Let all the ends thou aim'st at, be thy country's, 

Thy God's, and truth's ; then if thou fall'st, O Cromwell, 

Thou fall'st a blessed martyr. Serve the king; 

And, Pr'ythee, lead me in : 

There take an inventory of all I have, 

To the last penny : 'tis the king's : mv robe, 

And my integrity to Heaven, is all 

I dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell, 

Had I but served my God with half the zeal 

I served my king, He would not in mine age 

Have left me naked to mine enemies ! 



JULIUS CJESAR. 

Portents before Cjesa&'s Death, 

Casca, Cicero. 

Cicero. Good even, Casca : Brought you Caesar home ? 
Why are you breathless ? and why stare you so ? 

Casca. Are you not moved, when all the sway of earth 



I 

SHAKSPEARE. 57 

Shakes, like a thing unfirm ? O Cicero, 

I have seen tempests, when the scolding winds 

Have rived the knotty oaks ; and I have seen 

The ambitious ocean swell, and rage, and foam, 

To be exalted with the threat'ning clouds : 

But never till to-night, never till now, 

Did I go through a tempest dropping fire. 

Either there is a civil strife in heaven ; 

Or else the world, too saucy with the gods, 

Incenses them to send destruction. 

Cic. Why, saw you any thing more wonderful ? 

Cas. A common slave (you know him well by sight) 
Held up his left hand, which did flame, and burn 
Like twenty torches joined ; and yet his hand, 
Not sensible of fire, remained unscorched. 
Besides (I have not since put up my sword), 
Against the Capitol I met a lion, 
Who glared upon me, and went surly by % 
Without annoying me : And there were drawn 
Upon a heap a hundred ghastly women, 
Transformed with their fear ; who swore they saw 
Men, all on fire, walk up and down the streets. 
And, yesterday, the bird of night did sit, 
Even at noonday, upon the market-place, 
Hooting, and shrieking. When these prodigies 
Do so conjointly meet, let not men say, 
These are their reasons, — They are natural; 
For, I believe, they are portentous things 
Upon the climate that they point upon. 



58 GOLD EN L EA VES. 

Lowliness is Young Ambition s Ladder. 

.... But 'tis a common proof, 
That lowliness is young ambition's ladder, 
Whereto the climber-upward turns his face : 
But when he once attains the upmost round, 
He then unto the ladder turns his back, 
Looks in the clouds, scorning the base degrees 
By which he did ascend. . . . 

Mark Antony's Apostrophe to Cesar's Body. 
O, pardon me, thou piece of bleeding earth, 
That I am meek and gentle with these butchers ! 
Thou art the ruins of the noblest man, 
That ever lived in the tide of times. 
Woe to the hand that shed this costly blood ! 
Over thy wounds now do I prophesy, — 
Which, like dumb mouths, do ope their ruby lips, 
To beg the voice and utterance of my tongue ; — 
A curse shall light upon the limbs of men ; 
Domestic fury, and fierce civil strife, 
Shall cumber all the parts of Italy : 
Blood and destruction shall be so in use, 
And dreadful objects so familiar, 
That mothers shaD but smile, when they behold 
Their infants quartered with the hands of war ; 
All pity choked with custom of fell deeds : 
And Caesar's spirit, ranging for revenge, 
With Ate by his side, come hot from hell, 
Shall in these confines, with a monarch's voice, 
Cry Havoc, and let slip the dogs of war ; 
That this foul deed shall smell above the earth 
With carrion men, groaning for burial. 



SHAKSPEAPE. 59 

The Character of Brutus. 

This was the noblest Roman of them all : 
All the conspirators, save only he, 
Did that they did in envy of great Cassar ; 
He, only, in a general honest thought, 
And common good to all, made one of them. 
His life was gentle ; and the elements 
So mixed in him, that Nature might stand up, 
And say to all the world, This was a man ! 



MERCHANT OF VENICE. 

The Quality of Mercy, 

The quality of mercy is not strained ; 
It droppeth, as the gentle rain from heaven 
Upon the place beneath : it is twice blessed ; 
Is blesseth him that gives, and him that takes : 
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes 
The throned monarch better than his crown ; 
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power, 
The attribute to awe and majesty, 
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings ; 
But mercy is above this sceptred sway, 
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings, 
It is an attribute to God himself; 
And earthly power doth then show likest God's 
When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, 
Though justice be thy plea, consider this — 
That in the course of justice, none of us 
Should see salvation : we do pray for mercy ; 



60 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

And that same prayer doth teach us all to render 
The deeds of mercy. 

Lovers by Moonlight. 

Lorenzo and Jessica. 

Lor. The moon shines bright : — In such a night as this, 
When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees, 
And they did make no noise ; in such a night, 
Troilus, methinks, mounted the Trojan walls, 
And sighed his soul toward the Grecian tents 
Where Cressid lay that night. 

Jes. In such a night, 
Did Thisbe fearfully o'ertrip the dew, 
And saw the lion's shadow ere himself, 
And ran dismayed away. 

Lor. In such a night, 
Stood Dido with a willow in her hand 
Upon the wild sea-banks, and waved her love 
To come again to Carthage. 

Jfes. In such a night, 
Medea gathered the enchanted herbs 
That did renew old ^Eson. 

Lor. In such a night, 
Did Jessica steal from the wealthy Jew, 
And with an unthrift love did run from Venice, 
As far as Belmont. 

Jfes. And in such a night, 
Did young Lorenzo swear he loved her well ; 
Stealing her soul with many vows of faith, 
And ne'er a true one. 

Lor. And in such a night, 



; 



SEAKSPEARE. 6l 



Did pretty Jessica, like a little shrew, 
Slander her love, and he forgave it her. 

How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank ! 
Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music 
Creep in our ears ; soft stillness, and the night, 
Become the touches of sweet harmony. 
Sit, Jessica : Look, how the floor of heaven 
Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold ; 
There's not the smallest orh, which thou behold'st, 
But in his motion like an angel sings, 
Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubims : 
Such harmony is in immortal souls ; 
But, whilst this muddy vesture of decay 
Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it. — 

Enter Musicians. 

Come, ho, and wake Diana with a hymn ; r 
With sweetest touches pierce your mistress' ear, 
And draw her home with music. 

Jfes. I am never merry, when I hear sweet music. 

[Music. 

Lor. The reason is, your spirits are attentive : 
For do but note a wild and wanton herd, 
Or race of youthful and unhandled colts, 
Fetching mad bounds, bellowing, and neighing loud, 
Which is the hot condition of their blood ; 
If they but hear perchance a trumpet sound, 
Or any air of music touch their ears, 
You shall perceive them make a mutual stand, 
Their savage eyes turned to a modest gaze, 
By the sweet power of music : Therefore, the poet 






62 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones, and floods; 

Since naught so stockish, hard, and full of rage, 

But music for the time doth change his nature : 

The man that hath no music in himself, 

Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, 

Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils ; 

The motions of his spirit are dull as night, 

And his affections dark as Erebus : 

Let no such man be trusted. 



ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. 

Cleopatra's Passage doivn the Cydnus, 

Enobarbus, Agrippa. 

Eno. When she first met Mark Antony, she pursed up 
his heart, upon the river of Cydnus. 

Agr. There she appeared indeed; or my reporter de- 
vised well for her. 

Eno. I will tell you : 
The barge she sat in, like a burnished throne, 
Burned on the water : the poop was beaten gold ; 
Purple the sails, and so perfumed, that 
The winds were love-sick with them : the oars were silver ; 
Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke, and made 
The water, which they beat, to follow faster, 
As amorous of their strokes. For her own person, 
It beggared all description : she did lie 
In her pavilion (cloth of gold, of tissue), 
O'er-picturing that Venus, where we see 
The fancy out-work Nature : on each side her, 
Stood pretty dimpled boys, like smiling Cupids, 



SHAKSPEAR E. 63 

With divers-coloured fans, whose wind did seem 
To glow the delicate cheeks which they did cool, 
And what they undid, did. 

Agr. O, rare for Antony ! 

Eno. Her gentlewomen, like the Nereides, 
So many mermaids, tended her i' the eyes, 
And made their bends adornings : at the helm 
A seeming mermaid steers ; the silken tackle 
Swell with the touches of those flower-soft hands, 
That yarely frame the office. From the barge 
A strange invisible perfume hits the sense 
Of the adjacent wharfs. The city cast 
Her people out upon her ; and Antony, 
Enthroned in the market-place, did sit alone, 
Whistling to the air ; which, but for vacancy, 
Had gone to gaze on Cleopatra too, 
And made a gap in Nature. 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 

The Rigour of the Laiv. 

.... I not deny, 
The jury, passing on the prisoner's life, 
May, in the sworn twelve, have a thief or two 
Guiltier than him they try : What's open made to justice, 
That justice seizes. What know the laws, 
That thieves do pass on thieves ? 'Tis very pregnant, 
The jewel that we find, we stoop and take it, 
Because we see it; but what we do not see, 
We tread upon, and never think of it. . » . 
4 



04 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Mercy. 

.... Well believe this, 
No ceremony that to great ones 'longs, 
Not the king's crown, nor the deputed sword, 
The marshal's truncheon, nor the judge's robe, 
Become them with one half so good a grace, 
As mercy does. . . . 

A Sister pleading for a Brother* i Life. 

hub. So you must be the first, that gives this sentence; 
And he, that suffers : O, it is excellent 
To have a giant's strength ; but it is tyrannous 
To use it like a giant. ... 
Could great men thunder, 

As Jove himself does, Jove would ne'er be quiet, 
For every pelting, petty officer, 

Would use his heaven for thunder ; nothing but thunder. — ■ 
Merciful Heaven ! 

Thou rather, with thy sharp and sulphurous bolt, 
Splitt'st the unwedgeabie and gnarled oak, 
Than the soft myrtle. — O, but man, proud man ! 
Dressed in a little brief authority ; 
Most ignorant of what he's most assured, 
His glassy essence, — like an angry ape, 
Plays such fantastic tricks before high Heaven, 
As make the angels weep ; who, with our spleens, 
Would all themselves laugh mortal. 

Fear of Death. 
Ay, but to die, and go we know not where ; 
To lie in cold obstruction, and to rot; 
This sensible warm motion to become 



SHAKSPEARE. 65 

A kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit 
To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside 
In thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice ; 
To be imprisoned in the viewless winds, 
And blown with restless violence round about 
The pendent world ; or to be worse than worst 
Of those, that lawless and incertain thoughts 
Imagine howling ! — 'tis too horrible ! 
The weariest and most loathed worldly life, 
That age, ache, penury, and imprisonment 
Can lay on nature, is a paradise 
To what we fear of death. 



CYMBELINE. 

Posthumus, Husband to Imogen, Daughter of Cymbeline, King of 
Britain, is banished to Italy, 

Imogen and Pisanio. 

Imogen. I would have broke mine eye-strings, cracked 
them, but 
To look upon him ; till the diminution 
Of space had pointed him sharp as my needle : 
Nay, followed him, till he had melted from 
The smallness of a gnat to air ; and then 
Have turned mine eye, and wept. — But, good Pisanio, 
When shall we hear from him ? 

Pisanio. Be assured, madam, 
With his next vantage. 

lino. I did not take my leave of him, but had 
Most pretty things to say ; ere I could tell him, 
How I would think on him, at certain hours, 



66 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Such thoughts, and such ; or I could make him swear 
The shes of Italy should not betray 
Mine interest, and his honour ; or have charged him 
At the sixth hour of morn, at noon, at midnight, 
To encounter me with orisons, for then 
I am in heaven for him ; or ere I could 
Give him that parting kiss, which I had set 
Betwixt two charming words, — comes in my father, 
And, like the tyrannous breathing of the north, 
Shakes all our buds from growing. 

Iachimo, an Italian, having a ivager -with Posthumus touching Imo- 
gen's chastity, is concealed in a trunk in Imogen's chamber. 

Imogen, reading in her bed ; a Lady attending. 

Imogen. What hour is it ? 

Lady. Almost midnight, madam. 

Imo. I have read three hours then : mine eyes are weak : 
Fold down the leaf, where I have left : To bed ; 
Take not away the taper, leave it burning ; 
And if thou canst awake by four o' the clock, 
I pr'ythee, call me. Sleep hath seized me wholly. — 
To your protection I commend me, gods ! 
From fairies, and the tempters of the night, 
Guard me, beseech ye ! [Sleeps. 

Iachimo [from the trunk\ The crickets sing, and 
man's o'er-laboured sense 
Repairs itself by rest : our Tarquin thus 
Did softly press the rushes, ere he wakened 
The chastity he wounded. — Cytherea, 
How bravely thou becom'st thy bed ! fresh lily ! 
And whiter than the sheets ! That I might touch ' 
But kiss ; one kiss ! — Rubies unparagoned, 



SHAKSPEARE. 67 

How clearly they do't ! — 'Tis her breathing that 

Perfumes the chamber thus : the flame o' the taper 

Bows toward her ; and would under-peep her lids, 

To see the enclosed lights, now canopied 

Under these windows ; white and azure, laced 

With blue of heaven's own tinct. — But my design, 

To note the chamber : — I will write all down : — 

Such and such pictures : — There the window : — Such 

The adornment of her bed ; — the arras, figures, 

Why, such and such : — And the contents o' the story, — 

Ah, but some natural notes about her body, 

Above ten thousand meaner movables 

Would testify, to enrich mine inventory. 

O sleep, thou ape of death, lie dull upon her ! 

And be her sense but as a monument, 

Thus in a chapel lying ! — come off, come off; 

[Taking off her bracelet. 
As slippery as the Gordian knot was hard ! — 
'Tis mine, and this will witness outwardly, 
As strongly as the conscience does within, 
To the madding of her lord. On her left breast 
A mole cinque-spotted, like the crimson drops 
I' the bottom of a cowslip : Here's a voucher, 
Stronger than ever law could make : this secret 
Will force him think I have picked the lock, and ta'en 
The treasure of her honour. No more. — To what end ? 
Why should I write this down, that's riveted, 
Screwed to my memory ? She hath been reading late 
The tale of Tereus ; here the leaf's turned down, 
Where Philomel gave up ;— I have enough : 
To the trunk again, and shut the spring of it. 
Swift, swift, you dragons of the night ! — that dawning 



68 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

May bare the raven's eye : I lodge in fear ; 

Though this a heavenly angel, hell is here ! [Clock. 

One, two, three, — Time, time ! [Goes into the trunk. 

Posthumus, convinced of Imogen's perfidy, orders his Servant Pisanio 
to slay her. 

Pisanio and Imogen. 

Imo. Thou told'st me, when we came from horse, the 
place 
Was near at hand : — ne'er longed my mother so 
To see me first, as I have now : — Pisanio ! Man ! 
Where is Posthumus ? What is in thy mind, 
That makes thee stare thus ? Wherefore breaks that sigh 
From the inward of thee ? One, but painted thus, 
Would be interpreted a thing perplexed 
Beyond self-explication : put thyself 
Into a 'haviour of less fear, ere wildness 
Vanquish my staider senses. What's the matter ? 
Why tender'st thou that paper to me, with 
A look untender ? If it be summer news, 
Smile to't before : if winterly, thou need'st 
But keep that countenance still. — My husband's hand ! 
That drug-damned Italy hath out-craftied him, 
And he's at some hard point. — Speak, man; thy tongue 
May take off some extremity, which to read 
Would be even mortal to me. 

Pis. Please you, read ; 
And you shall find me, wretched man, a thing 
The most disdained of fortune. 

Imo. (Reads.) Thy mistress, Pisanio, hath played false to my bed : 
the testimonies whereof lie bleeding in me. I speak not out of weak 
surmises ; from proof as strong as my grief, and as certain as I expect 



SEAKSPEARE. 69 

my revenge. That part, thou, Pisanio, must act for me, if thy faith 
be not tainted with the breach of hers. Let thine own hands take 
away her life : I shall give thee opportunities at Milford-Haven : she 
hath my letter for the purpose, where, if thou fear to strike, and to 
make me certain it is done, thou art the pander to her dishonour, 
and equally to me disloyal. 

Pis. What shall I need to draw my sword ? the paper 
Hath cut her throat already. — No, 'tis slander ; 
Whose edge is sharper than the sword ; whose tongue 
Outvenoms all the worms of Nile ; whose breath 
Rides on the posting winds, and doth belie 
All corners of the world : kings, queens, and states, 
Maids, matrons, nay, the secrets of the grave, 
This viperous slander enters. — What cheer, madam ? 

lmo. False to his bed ! What is it to be false ? 
To lie in watch there, and to think on him ? 
To weep 'twixt clock and clock ? if sleep charge nature, 
To break it with a fearful dream of him, 
And cry myself awake ? That's false to his bed ? 
Is it ? 

Pis. Alas, good lady ! 

Imo. . . . Come, fellow, be thou honest ; 
Do thou thy master's bidding : when thou seest him, 
A little witness my obedience : look ! 
I draw the sword myself: take it, and hit 
The innocent mansion of my love, my heart : 
Fear not; 'tis empty of all things, bat grief: 
Thy master is not there ; who was, indeed, 
The riches of it. Do his bidding ; strike. 
Thou mayst be valiant in a better cause ; 
But now thou seem'st a coward. . . . Pr'ythee, dispatch ! 
The lamb entreats the butcher. Where's thy knife ? 



70 G OLD EN LEAVES. 

Thou art too slow to do thy master's bidding, 
When I desire it too. 

Pis. O gracious lady, 
Since I received command to do this business, 
I have not slept one wink. 

Imo. Do't, and to bed then. 

Pis. I'll wake mine eye-balls blind first. 

Imo. Wherefore then 
Didst undertake it ? Why hast thou abused 
So many miles, with a pretence ? this place ? 
Mine action, and thine own ? our horses' labour ? 
The time inviting thee ? the perturbed court, 
For my being absent ; whereunto I never 
Purpose return ? Why hast thou gone so far, 
To be unbent, when thou hast ta'en thy stand, 
The elected deer before thee ? 

Pis. But to win time 
To lose so bad employment : in the which 
I have considered of a course : good lady, 
Hear me with patience. 

Imo. Talk thy tongue weary ; speak : 
I have heard, I am a strumpet ; and mine ear, 
Therein false struck, can take no greater wound, 
Nor tent to bottom that. But speak. 

Pis. Then, madam, 
I thought you would not back again, 

Imo. Most like ; 
Bringing me here to kill me. 

Pis. Not so, neither ; 
But if I were as wise as honest, then 
My purpose would prove well. It cannot b r 
But that my master is abused : 



I 



| 
I 

SHAKSPEARE. 71 

,H 
Some villain, ay, and singular in his art, 

Hath done you both this cursed injury. 

Imo. Some Roman courtezan. 

Pis. No, on my life. 
I'll give but notice you are dead, and send him 
Some bloody sign of it ; for 'tis commanded 
I should do so : you shall be missed at court, 
And that will well confirm it. 

Imo. Why, good fellow, 
What shall I do the while ? Where bide ? How live ? 

Pis. . . . The ambassador, 
Lucius the Roman, comes to Milford-Haven 
To-morrow. Now, if you could wear a mind 
Dark as your fortune is ; and but disguise 
That, which, to appear itself, must not yet be, 
But by self-danger ; you should tread a course 
Pretty, and full of view : yea, haply, near 
The residence of Posthumus : so nigh, at* least, 
That though his actions were not visible, yet 
Report should render him hourly to. your ear, 
As truly as he moves. 

Imo. O, for such means ! 
Though peril to my modesty, not death on't, 
I would adventure. 

Pis. Well, then, here's the point : 
You must forget to be a woman ; change 
Command into obedience : fear, and niceness 
(The handmaids of all women, or, more truly, 
Woman its pretty self), to a waggish courage ; 
Ready in gibes, quick-answered, saucy, and 
As quarrelous as the weasel : nay, you must 
Forget that rarest treasure of your cheek, 



72 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Exposing it (but, O, the harder heart ! 
Alack, no remedy !) to the greedy touch 
Of common-kissing Titan ; and forget 
Your laboursome and dainty mms, wherein 
You made great Juno angry. 

Imo. Nay, be brief: 
I see into thy end, and am almost 
A man already. 

Pis. First, make yourself but like one. 
Fore-thinking this, I have already fit 
('Tis in my cloak-bag), doublet, hat, hose, all 
That answer to them : would you, in their serving, 
And with what imitation you can borrow 
From youth of such a season, 'fore noble Lucius 
Present yourself, desire his service, tell him 
Wherein you are happy (which you'll make him know, 
If that his head have ?ar in music), doubtless, 
With joy he will embrace you ; for he's honourable, 
x^nd, doubling that, most holy. Your means abroad 
You have me, rich; and I will never fail 
Beginning, nor supplyment. 

Imo. Thou art all the comfort 
The gods will diet me with. Pr'ythee, away : 
There's more to be considered ; but we'll even 
All that good time will give us : this attempt 
I'm soldier to, and will abide it with 
A prince's courage. Away, I pr'ythee. 

Pis. Well, madam, we must take a short farewell ; 
Lest, being missed, I be suspected of 
Your carriage from the court. . . . To some shade, 
And fit you to your manhood : — May the gods 
Direct you to the best ! 



SHAKSPEARE. 73 



THE TEMPEST. 



The Dissolution of all Things. 

Our revels now are ended : these our actors, 
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and 
Are melted into air, into thin air : 
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision, 
The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces, 
The solemn temples, the great globe itself, 
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve ; 
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, 
Leave not a rack behind : We are such stuff 
As dreams are made of, and our little life 
Is rounded with a sleep. 

Prospero abjures his Magic. 

Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes, and groves ; 
And ye, that on the sands with printless foot 
Do chase the ebbing Neptune, and do fly him, 
When he comes back : you demi-puppets, that 
By moonshine do the green-sour ringlets make, 
Whereof the ewe not bites ; and you, whose pastime 
Is to make midnight-mushrooms ; that rejoice 
To hear the solemn curfew; by whose aid 
(Weak masters though you be) I have bedimmed 
The noontide sun, called forth the mutinous winds, 
And 'twixt the green sea and the azured vault 
Set roaring war : to the dread rattling thunder 
Have I given fire, and rifted Jove's stout oak 
With his own bolt : the strong-based promontory 
Have I made shake- and bv the sours nlnckerl no 



74 G OLDEN LEAVES. 

The pine, and cedar : graves, at my command, 

Have waked their sleepers ; oped, and let them forth 

By my so potent art : But this rough magic 

I here abjure : and, when I have required 

Some heavenly music (which even now I do), 

To work mine end upon their senses, that 

This airy charm is for, I'll break my staffs 

Bury it certain fathoms in the earth, 

And, deeper than did ever plummet sound, 

I'll drown my book. [Solemn music. 



33en fonson. 

CATILINE, HIS CONSPIRACY. 

Thi Morning of the Conspiracy. — Lentulus, Cethegus, and Cati- 
line meet, before the other Conspirators are ready. 

Lent. It is, methinks, a morning full of fate ; 
It riseth slowly, as her sullen car 
Had all the weights of sleep and death hung at it. 
She is not rosy-fingered, but swoln black ; 
Her face is like a water turned to blood, 
And her sick head is bound about with clouds, 
As if she threatened night ere noon of day. 
It does not look as it would have a hail 
Or health wished in it, as on other morns. 

Ceth. Why, all the fitter, Lentulus : our coming 
Is not for salutation : we have business. 

Cat. Said nobly, brave Cethegus. Where's AutroniuE * 



BEN JONS ON. 75 

Ceth. Is he not come ? 

Cat. Not here. 

Ceth. Not Vargunteius ? 

Cat. Neither. 

Ceth. A fire in their beds and bosoms, 
That so well serve their sloth rather than virtue ! 
They are no Romans, and at such high need 
As now 

Lent. Both they, Longinus, Lecca, Curius, 
Fulvius, Gabinus, gave me word last night, 
By Lucius Bestia, they would all be here, 
And early. 

Ceth. Yes ! as you, had I not called you. — 
Come, we all sleep, and are mere dormice ; flies 
A little less than dead : more dulness hangs 
On us than on the morn. We're spirit-bound, 
In ribs of ice ; our whole bloods are one stone : 
And honour cannot thaw us, nor our warits, 
Though they burn hot as fevers to our states. 

Cat. I muse they would be tardy at an hour 
Of so great purpose. 

Ceth. If the gods had called 
Them to a purpose, they would just have come 
With the same tortoise speed, that are thus slow 
To such an action, which the gods will envy ; 
As asking no less means than all their powers 
Conjoined to effect. I would have seen Rome burnt 
By this time, and her ashes in an urn : 
The kingdom of the senate rent asunder : 
And the degenerate talking gown run frighted 
Out of the air of Italy. 

Cat. Spirit of men, 



76 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Thou heart of our great enterprise, how much 
I love these voices in thee ! 

Ceth. O the days 
Of Sylla's sway, when the free sword took leave 
To act all that it would ! 

Cat. And was familiar 
With entrails, as our augurs 

Ceth. Sons killed fathers, 
Brothers their brothers 

Cat. And had price and praise : 
All hate and license given it ; all rage reins. 

Ceth. Slaughter bestrid the streets, and stretched himself 
To seem more huge : whilst to his stained thighs 
The gore he drew flowed up, and carried down 
Whole heaps of limbs and bodies through his arch. 
No age was spared, no sex. 

Cat. Nay, no degree 

Ceth. Not infants in the porch of life were free. 
The sick, the old, that could but hope a day 
Longer by Nature's bounty, not let stay. 
Virgins and widows, matrons, pregnant wives, 
All died. 

Cat. 'Twas crime enough that they had lives. 
To strike but only those that could do hurt, 
Was dull and poor. Some fell, to make the number; 
As some, the prey. 

Ceth. The rugged Charon fainted, 
And asked a navy rather than a boat, 
To ferry over the sad world that came : 
The maws and dens of beasts could not receive 
The bodies that those souls were frighted from ; 
And even the graves were filled with men yet living. 



BEN JONSON. J7 

Whose flight and fear had mixed them with the dead. 

Cat. And this shall be again, and more, and more, 
Now Lentulus, the third Cornelius, 
lb to stand up in Rome. 

Lent. Nay, urge not that 
Is so uncertain. 

Cat. How! 

Lent. I mean, not cleared ; 
And therefore not to be reflected on. 

Cat. The Sibyl'? leaves uncertain ! or the comments 
Of oar grave, deep, divining men, not clear ! 

Lent. All prophecies, you know, suffer the torture. 

Cat. But this already hath confessed, without; 
And so been weighed, examined, and compared, 
As 'twere malicious ignorance in him 
Would faint in the belief. 

Lent. Do you believe it ? 

Cat. Do I love Lentulus, or pray to see it ? 

Lent. The augurs all are constant I am meant. 

Cat. They had lost their science else. 

Lent. They count from Cinna 

Cat. And Sylla next — and so make you the third : 
All that can say the sun is risen, must think it. 

Lent. Men mark me more of late, as I come forth. 

Cat. Why, what can they do less ? Cinna and Sylla 
Are set and gone ; and we must turn our eyes 
On him that is, and shines. Noble Cethegus, 
But view him with me here ! He looks already 
As if he shook a sceptre o'er the senate, 
And the awed purple dropped their rods and axes. 
The statues melt again, and household gods 
In groans confess the travails of the city : 



7® G OLDEN LEAVES. 

The very walls sweat blood before the change ; 
And stones start out to ruin, ere it comes. 

Ceth. But he, and we, and all, are idle still. 

Lent. I am your creature, Sergius ; and whate'er 
The great Cornelian name shall win to be, 
It is not augury, nor the Sibyl's books, 
But Catiline, that makes it. 

Cat. I am a shadow 
To honoured Lentulus, and Cethegus here ; 
Who are the heirs of Mars. . . . 



POETASTER; OR, HIS ARRAIGNMENT. 

Augustus C^sar discourses ivith his Courtiers concerning Poetry. 

C^sar, Mec^enas, Gallus, Tibullus, Horace. 

Ccesar. We, that have conquered still to save the con- 
quered, 
And love to make inflictions feared, not felt ; 
Grieved to reprove, and joyful to reward, 
More proud of reconcilement than revenge, 
Resume into the late state of our love 
Worthy Cornelius Gallus and Tibullus.* 
You both are gentlemen ; you, Cornelius, 
A soldier of renown, and the first provost 
That ever let our Roman eagles fly 
On swarthy Egypt, quarried with her spoils. 
Yet (not to bear cold forms, nor men's out-terms, 
Without the inward fires, and lives of men) 



* They had offended the Emperor by concealing the love of Ovid 
for the Princess Julia. 



BEN JONS ON. 79 

You both have virtues, shining through your shapes ; 
To show, your titles are not writ on posts, 
Or hollow statues; which the best men are, 
Without Promethean stuffings reached from heaven. 
Sweet Poesy's sacred garlands crown your gentry : 
Which is, of all the faculties on earth, 
The most abstract, and perfect, if she be 
True born, and nursed with all the sciences. 
She can so mould Rome, and her monuments, 
Within the liquid marble of her lines, 
That they shall stand fresh and miraculous, 
Even when they mix with innovating dust ; 
In her sweet streams shall our brave Roman spirits 
Chase, and swim after death, with their choice deeds 
Shining on their white shoulders ; and therein 
Shall Tiber, and our famous rivers, fall 
With such attraction, that th' ambitious line 
Of the round world shall to her centre shrink, 
To hear their music. And for these high parts, 
Caesar shall reverence the Pierian arts. 

Mec. Your majesty's high grace to poesy 
Shall stand 'gainst all the dull detractions 
Of leaden souls ; who for the vain assumings 
Of some, quite worthless of her sovereign wreaths, 
Contain her worthiest prophets in contempt. 

Gal. Happy is Rome of all earth's other states, 
To have so true and great a president, 
For her inferior spirits to imitate, 
As Caesar is ; who addeth to the sun 
Influence and lustre, in increasing thus 
His inspirations, kindling fire in us. 

Hor. Phoebus himself shall kneel at Caesar's shrine, 



80 G OLDEN LEAVES. 

And deck it with bay-garlands dewed with wine, 
To quit the worship Caesar does to him : 
Where other princes, hoisted to their thrones 
By Fortune's passionate and disordered power, 
Sit in their height like clouds before the sun, 
Hind'ring his comforts ; and (by their excess 
Of cold in virtue, and cross heat in vice) 
Thunder and tempest on those learned heads, 
Whom Caesar with such honour doth advance. 

Tib. All human business Fortune doth command 
Without all order ; and with her blind hand, 
She, blind, bestows blind gifts : that still have nursed, 
They see not who, nor how, but still the worst. 

Cces. Caesar, for his rule, and for so much stuff 
As Fortune puts in his hand, shall dispose it 
(As if his hand had eyes, and soul, in it) 
With worth and judgment. Hands that part with gifts, 
Or will restrain their use, without desert, 
Or with a misery, numbed to Virtue's right, 
Work, as they had no soul to govern them, 
And quite reject her : severing their estates 
From human order. W'hosoever can, 
And will not cherish Virtue, is no man. 

Eques. Virgil is now at hand, imperial Caesar. 

Cccs. Rome's honour is at hand then. Fetch a chair, 
And set it on our right hand ; where 'tis fit, 
Rome's honour and our own should ever sit. 
Now he is come out of Campania, 
I doubt not he hath finished all his ^Sneids ; 
Which, like another soul, I long t' enjoy. 
What think you three of Virgil, gentlemen 
(That are of his profession, though ranked higher), 



BEN JONSON. 8l 

Or, Horace, what sayst thou, that art the poorest, 
And likeliest to envy or to detract ? 

Hot. Caesar speaks after common men in this, 
To make a difference of me for my poorness : 
As if the filth of poverty sunk as deep 
Into a knowing spirit, as the bane 
Of riches doth into an ignorant soul. 
No, Caesar ; they be pathless moorish minds, 
That being once made rotten with the dung 
Of damned riches, ever after sink 
Beneath the steps of any villany. 
But knowledge is the nectar, that keeps sweet 
A perfect soul, even in this grave of sin ; 
And for my soul, it is as free as Caesar's : 
For what I know is due I'll give to all. 
He that detracts, or envies virtuous merit, 
Is still the covetous and the ignorant spirit. 

Cccs. Thanks, Horace, for thy free and wholesome sharp- 
ness : 
Which pleaseth Caesar more than servile fawns. 
A flattered prince soon turns the prince of fools. 
And for thy sake we'll put no difference more 
Between the great and good for being poor. 
Say, then, loved Horace, thy true thought of Virgil. 

Hor. I judge him of a rectified spirit, 
By many revolutions of discourse 
(In his bright reason's influence) refined 
From all the tartarous moods of common men ; 
Bearing the nature and similitude 
Of a right heavenly body ; most severe 
In fashion and collection of himself: 
And then as clear and confident as Jove. 



82 G OLDEN LEA VES. 

GaL And yet so chaste and tender is his ear, 
In suffering any syllable to pass, 
That he thinks may become the honoured name 
Of issue to his so examined self, 
That all the lasting fruits of his full merit 
In his own poems, he doth still distaste; 
As if his mind's piece, which he strove to paint, 
Could not with fleshly pencils have her right. 

Tib. But to approve his works of sovereign worth, 
This observation (methinks) more than serves; 
And is not vulgar. That which he hath writ, 
Is with such judgment laboured, and distilled 
Through all the needful uses of our lives, 
That could a man remember but his lines, 
He should not touch at any serious point, 
But he might breathe his spirit out of him. 

Cces. You mean, he might repeat part of his works, 
As fit for any conference he can use ? 

Tib. True, royal Caesar. 

Cczs. Worthily observed : 
And a most worthy virtue in his works. 
What thinks material Horace of his learning ? 

Hot. His learning savours not the school-like gloss, 
That most consists in echoing words and terms, 
And soonest wins a man an empty name : 
Nor any long, or far-fetched circumstance, 
Wrapped in the curious general' ties of arts; 
But a direct and analytic sum 
Of all the worth and first effects of arts. 
And for his poesy, 'tis so rammed with life, 
That it shall gather strength of life, with being, 
And live hereafter more admired than now. 



BEN J ON SON. 83 

Cces. This one consent, in all your dooms of him, 
And mutual loves of all your several merits, 
Argues a truth of merit in you all. 

Virgil enters. 

See, here comes Virgil : we will rise and greet him : 
Welcome to Caesar, Virgil ! Caesar and Virgil 
Shall differ but in sound ; to Caesar, Virgil 
(Of his expressed greatness) shall be made 
A second surname ; and to Virgil, Caesar. 
Where are thy famous ^Eneids ? Do us grace 
To let us see, and surfeit on their sight. 

Vir. Worthless they are of Caesar's gracious eyes, 
If they were perfect ; much more with their wants : 
Which yet are more than my time could supply. 
And could great Caesar's expectation 
Be satisfied with any other service, 
I would not show them. 

Cces. Virgil is too modest ; 
Or seeks, in vain, to make our longings more. 
Show them, sweet Virgil. 

Vir. Then, in such due fear 
As fits presenters of great works to Caesar, 
I humbly show them. 

Cces. Let us now behold 
A human soul made visible in life : 
And more refulgent in a senseless paper, 
Than in the sensual compliment of kings. 
Read, read thyself, dear Virgil ; let not me 
Profane one accent with an untuned tongue : 
Best matter, badly shown, shows worse than bad. 
See then this chair, of purpose set for thee, 



»4 (JOLDEN LEAVES. 

To read thy poem in ; refuse it not ; 
Virtue, without presumption, place may take 
Above best kings, whom only she should make. 

Vir, It will be thought a thing ridiculous 
To present eyes, and to all future times 
A gross untruth, that any poet (void 
Of birth, or wealth, or temporal dignity) 
Should, with decorum, transcend Caesar's chair. 
Poor virtue raised, high birth and wealth set under, 
Crosseth Heaven's courses, and makes worldlings wonder. 

Cccs. The course of Heaven, and Fate itself, in this 
Will Caesar cross ; much more all worldly custom. 

Hor. Custom in course of honour ever errs : 
And they are best, whom Fortune least prefers. 

Cccs, Horace hath (but more strictly) spoke our thoughts. 
The vast rude swinge of general confluence 
Is, in particular ends, exempt from sense : 
And therefore reason (which in right should be 
The special rector of all harmony) 
Shall show we are a man, distinct by it 
From those whom Custom rapteth in her press. 
Ascend, then, Virgil; and where first by chance 
We here have turned thy book, do thou first read. 

Vir. Great Caesar hath his will : I will ascend. 
'Twere simple injury to his free hand, 
That sweeps the cobwebs from unused Virtue, 
And makes her shine proportioned to her worth, 
To be more nice to entertain his grace, 
Than he is choice and liberal to afford it. 

Cozs. Gentlemen of our chamber, guard the doors, 
And let none enter. — Peace ! — Begin, good Virgil. 

[Virgil reads part of his fourth jEnad. 



DECKER. 85 



©fjomas Decker. 

SATIRO-MASTIX, OR THE UNTRUSSING OF THE HU- 
MOROUS POET. 

The King exacts an Oath from Sir Walter Terill to send his Bride 
Cjelestina to Court on the Marriage Night. Her Father, to save 
her Honour, gives her a poisonous Mixture, ivhich she sivalloivs. 

Terill, C^lestina, Father. 

CczL Why didst thou swear? 

Ter. The King 
Sat heavy on my resolution, 
Till (out of breath) it panted out an oath. 

CceL An oath ! why, what's an oath ? 'tis but the smoke 
Of flame and blood ; the blister of the spirit 
Which riseth from the steam of rage • the bubble 
That shoots up to the tongue, and scalds the voice 
(For oaths are burning words). Thou swor'st but one, 
'Tis frozen long ago : if one be numbered, 
What countrymen are they, where do they dwell, 
That speak naught else but oaths ? 

Ter. They're men of hell. 
An oath ! why, 'tis the traffic of the soul, 
'Tis law within a man ; the seal of faith, 
The bond of every conscience ; unto whom 
We set our thoughts like hands ; yea, such a one 
I swore, and to the King ; a king contains 
A thousand thousand ; when I swore to him, 
I swore to them ; the very hairs that guard 
His head will rise up like sharp witnesses 
Against my faith and loyalty : his eye 



86 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Would straight condemn me : argue oaths no more ; 
My oath is high, for to the King I swore. 

CccL Must I betray my chastity, so long 
Clean from the treason of rebelling lust ? 
O husband, O my father, if poor I 
Must not live chaste, then let me chastely die. 

Fatk. Ay, here's a charm shall keep thee chaste ; come, 
come! 
Old Time hath left us but an hour to play 
Our parts ; begin the scene. Who shall speak first ? 
Oh, I — I play the King, and kings speak first : 
Daughter, stand thou here, thou son Terill there; 
We need no prologue, the King entering first 
He's a most gracious prologue : marry, then 
For the catastrophe, or epilogue, 
There's one in cloth of silver, which no doubt 
Will please the hearers well when he steps out ; 
His mouth is filled with words : see where he stands * 
He'll make them clap their eyes besides their hands. 
But to my part : suppose who enters now, 
A king whose eyes are set in silver ; one 
That blusheth gold, speaks music, dancing walks, 
Now gathers nearer, takes thee by the hand, 
When straight thou think'st the very orb of heaven 
Moves round about thy fingers ; then he speaks, 
Thus — thus — I know not how. 

CceL Nor I to answer him. 

Fatk. No, girl, know'st thou not how to answer him ? 
Why, then, the field is lost, and he rides home 
Like a great conqueror : not answer him ! 
Out of thy part already ! foiled the scene ! 
Disranked the lines ! disarmed the action ! 



DECKER. 87 

Ter, Yes, yes, true chastity is tongued so weak, 
'Tis overcome ere it know how to speak. 

Fatk. Come, come, thou happy close of every wrong, 
'Tis thou that canst dissolve the hardest doubt ; 
'Tis time for thee to speak, we all are out. 
Daughter, and you the man whom I call son, 
I must confess I made a deed of gift 
To Heaven and you, and gave my child to both ; 
When on my blessing I did charm her soul 
In the white circle of true chastity, 
Still to run true till death : now, sir, if not, 
She forfeits my rich blessing, and is fined 
With an eternal curse ; then I tell you, 
She shall die now, now whilst her soul is true. 

Ter. Die ? 

Cxi. Ay, I am Death's echo. 

Fatk. O my son ! 
I am her father; every tear I shed 
Is threescore ten years old ; I weep and smile 
Two kinds of tears ; I weep that she must die, 
I smile that she must die a virgin : thus 
We joyful men mock tears, and tears mock us. 

Ter. What speaks that cup ? 

Fatk. White wine and poison. 

Ter. Oh! 
That very name of poison poisons me. 
Thou winter of a man, thou walking grave, 
Whose life is like a dying taper, how 
Canst thou define a lover's labouring thoughts ? 
What scent hast thou but death ? what taste but earth ? 
The breath that purls from thee is like the steam 
Of a new-opened vault : I know thy drift ; 
5 



88 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Because thou'rt travelling to the land of graves, 
Thou covet'st company, and hither bring'st 
A health of poison to pledge Death : a poison 
For this sweet spring ; this element is mine, 
This is the air I breathe ; corrupt it not ; 
This heaven is mine — I bought it with my soul 
Of him that sells a heaven to buy a soul. 

Fath. Well, let her go ; she's thine, thou call'st her thine, 
Thy element, the air thou breath'st ; thou know'st 
The air thou breath'st is common ; make her so. 
Perhaps thou'lt say none but the King shall wear 
Thy night-gown, she that laps thee warm with love ; 
And that kings are not common : then to show 
By consequence he cannot make her so. 
Indeed, she may promote her shame and thine, 
And with your shames speak a good word for mine. 
The King shining so clear, and we so dim, 
Our dark disgraces will be seen through him. 
Imagine her the cup of thy moist life, 
What man would pledge a king in his own wife ? 

Ter. She dies ! that sentence poisons her : O life ! 
What slave would pledge a king in his own wife ? 

Cczl. Welcome, O poison ! physic against lust, 
Thou wholesome medicine to a constant blood ; 
Thou rare apothecary that canst keep 
My chastity preserved within this box 
Of tempting dust, this painted earthen pot 
That stands upon the stall of the white soul, 
To set the shop out like a flatterer, 
To draw the customers of sin : come, come, 
Thou art no poison, but a diet-drink 
To moderate my blood. White-innocent Wine, 



DECKER AND WEBSTER. 89 

Art thou made guilty of my death ? Oh, no, 
For thou thyself art poison ; take me hence, 
For Innocence shall murder Innocence. [Drinks. 

Ter Hold, hold ! thou shalt not die, my bride, my wife ! 
O stop that speedy messenger of Death ! 

let him not run down that narrow path 
Which leads unto thy heart, nor carry news 
To thy removing soul that thou must die. 

Ccel. 'Tis done already ! — the spiritual court 
Is breaking up ; all offices discharged, 
My soul removes from this weak standing-house 
Of frail mortality. — Dear father, bless 
Me now and ever ! — Dearer man, farewell ! 

1 jointly take my leave of thee and life : 
Go tell the King thou hast a constant wife ! 

Fath. Smiles on my cheeks arise, 
To see how sweetly a true virgin dies. 



Sfyomaa JDaker anir lofyn Webster. 

WESTWARD HOE! A COMEDY. 

Pleasure the General Pursuit. 

.... Sweet Pleasure ! 
Delicious Pleasure ! earth's supremest good, 
The spring of blood, though it dry up our blood ! 
Rob me of that (though to be drunk with pleasure, 
As rank excess even in best things is bad, 
Turns man into a beast), yet, that being gone, 
A horse, and this (the goodliest shape), all one. 



cp GOLDEN LEAVES. 

We feed ; wear rich attires ; and strive to cleave 
The stars with marble towers ; fight battles ; spend 
Our blood to buy us names ; and in iron hold 
Will we eat roots to imprison fugitive gold : 
But to do thus what spell can us excite ? 
This — the strong magic of our appetite : 
To feast which richly, life itself undoes. 
Who'd not die thus ? 

Why, even those that starve in voluntary wants, 
And, to advance the mind, keep the flesh poor, 
The world enjoying them, they not the world; 
Would they do this, but that they are proud to suck 
A sweetness from such sourness ? . . . . 



!of)it ilUbster. 

DUCHESS OF MALFY. 

The Duchess of Malfy marries her Steward $ the Marriage being dis- 
covered by her Brother Ferdinand, he shuts her up in a Prison, and 
torments her ivith various Trials of studied Cruelty. By his Com- 
mand, Bosola, the Instrument of his Devices, shoivs her the Bodies 
of her Husband and Children, counterfeited in Wax, as dead. 

Duchess, Bosola. 

Bos. He doth present you this sad spectacle, 
That now you know directly they are dead, 
Hereafter you may wisely cease to grieve 
For that which cannot be recovered. 

Duck. There is not between heaven and earth one wish 
I stay for after this : it wastes me more 
Than were't my picture fashioned out of wax, 



WEBSTER. tfi 

Stuck with a magical needle, and then buried 

In some foul dunghill ; and yond's an excellent property 

For a tyrant, which I would account mercy. 

Bos. What's that ? 

Duck. If they would bind me to that lifeless trunk, 
And let me freeze to death. 

Bos. Come, you must live. 
Leave this vain sorrow. 
Things being at the worst, begin to mend. 
The bee, 

When he hath shot his sting into your hand. 
May then play with your eyelid. 

Duck. Good comfortable fellow, 
Persuade a wretch that's broke upon the wheel 
To have all his bones new set ; entreat him live 
To be executed again ! Who must dispatch me ? 
I account this world a tedious theatre, 
For I do play a part in't 'gainst my will. * 

Bos. Come, be of comfort ; I will save your life. 

Duck. Indeed, I have not leisure to attend 
So small a business. 
I will go pray. — No, I'll go curse ! 

Bos. Oh, fie ! 

Duck. I could curse the stars. 

Bos. Oh, fearful ! 

Duck. And those three smiling seasons of the year 
Into a Russian winter; nay, the world 
To its first chaos. 

Plagues (that make lanes through largest families) 
Consume them !* 

* Her brothers. 



92 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Let them, like tyrants, 

Ne'er be remembered but for the ill they've done. 

Let all the zealous prayers of mortified 

Churchmen forget them. 

Let Heaven a little while cease crowning martyrs, 

To punish them ! Go, howl them this ; and say, I long 

to bleed : 
It is some mercy when men kill with speed. [Exit. 

Ferdinand enters. 

Ferd. Excellent, as I would wish ! she's plagued in art. 
These presentations are but framed in wax, 
By the curious master in that quality, 
Vincentio Lauriola, and she takes them 
For true substantial bodies. 

Bos. Why do you do this ? 

Ferd. To bring her to despair. 

Bos. Faith, end here ; 
And go no further in your cruelty. 
Send her a penitential garment to put on 
Next to her delicate skin, and furnish her 
With beads and prayer-books. 

Ferd. Damn her ! that body of hers, 
While that my blood ran pure in't, was more worth 
Than that, which thou wouldst comfort, called a soul. 
I'll send her masques of common courtezans, 
Have her meat served up by bawds and ruffians, 
And ('cause she'll need be mad) I am resolved 
To remove forth the common hospital 
All the mad folk, and place them near her lodging : 
There let 'em practise together, sing, and dance, 
And act their gambols to the full o' the moon. 



WEBSTER. 93 

She is kept leaking ivith noises of Madmen ; and, at last, is strangled 
by common Executioners. 

Duchess, Cariola. 

Duch. What hideous noise was that ? 

Car. 'Tis the wild consort 
Of madmen, Lady, which your tyrant brother 
Hath placed about your lodging : this tyranny 
I think was never practised till this hour. 

Duch, Indeed, I thank him ; nothing but noise and folly 
Can keep me in my right wits, whereas reason 
And silence make me stark mad. Sit down; 
Discourse to me some dismal tragedy. 

Car. Oh, 'twill increase your melancholy ! 

Duck. Thou art deceived. 
To hear of greater grief would lessen mine. 
This is a prison ? 

Car. Yes : but thou shalt live 
To shake this durance off. 

Duch. Thou art a fool. 
The robin red-breast and the nightingale 
Never live long in cages. 

Car. Pray, dry your eyes. 
What think you of, Madam ? 

Duch. Of nothing : 
When I muse thus, I sleep. 

Car. Like a madman, with your eyes open ? 

Duch. Dost thou think we shall know one another 
In the other world ? 

Car. Yes, out of question. 

Duch. Oh, that it were possible we might 
But hold some two days' conference with the dead ! 



94 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

From them I should learn somewhat I am sure 

I never shall know here. I'll tell thee a miracle : 

I am not mad yet, to my cause of sorrow. 

Th' heaven o'er my head seems made of molten brass, 

The earth of flaming sulphur, yet I am not mad : 

I am acquainted with sad. misery, 

As the tanned galley-slave is with his oar ; 

Necessity makes me suffer constantly, \ 

And custom makes it easy. Who do I look like now? 

Car. Like to your picture in the gallery ; 
A deal of life in show, but none in practice : 
Or rather, like some reverend monument 
Whose ruins are even pitied. 

Duck. Very proper : 
And Fortune seems only to have her eyesight, 
To behold my tragedy. — How now ! 
What noise is that ? 

A Servant enters. 

Serv. I am come to tell you, 
Your brother hath intended you some sport. 
A great physician, when the pope was sick 
Of a deep melancholy, presented him 
With several sorts of madmen, which wild object 
(Being full of change and sport) forced him to laugh, 
And so th' imposthume broke : the self-same cure 
The duke intends on you. 

Duck. Let them come in. 

Here follows a dance of madmen, with music answerable 
thereto ; after which Bosola (like an old man) enters. 

Duck. Is he mad too ? 



WEBSTER. 95 

Bos. I am come to make thy tomb. 

Ditch. Ha ! my tomb ? 
Thou speak'st as if I lay upon my death-bed, 
Gasping for breath : dost thou perceive me sick ? 

Bos. Yes, and the more dangerously, since thy sickness 
is insensible. 

Duck. Thou art not mad, sure : dost know me ? 

Bos. Yes 

Duck. Let me know fully, therefore, the effect 
Of this thy dismal preparation. . . . 

Bos. Now I shall. \A coffin, cords, and a bell, produced. 
Here is a present from your princely brothers ; 
And may it arrive welcome, for it brings 
Last benefit, last sorrow ! 

Duck. Let me see it; 
I have so much obedience in my blood, 
I wish it in their veins to do them good. 

Bos. This is your last presence-chamber. 

Car. O my sweet lady ! 

Duck. Peace ! — it affrights not me. 

Bos. I am the common bell-man, 
That usually is sent to condemned persons 
The night before they suffer. 

Duck. Even now thou saidst, 
Thou wast a tomb-maker. 

Bos. 'Twas to bring you 
By degrees to mortification. Listen ! 

Dirge. 

Hark ! now every thing is still ; 

This screech-owl, and the whistler shrill, 

Call upon our dame aloud, 

5* 



96 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

And bid her quickly don her shroud. — 

Much you had of land and rent ; 

Your length in clay's now competent. 

A long war disturbed your mind ; 

Here your perfect peace is signed. 

Of what is't fools make such vain keeping ? 

Sin, their conception ; their birth, weeping : 

Their life, a general mist of error ; 

Their death, a hideous storm of terror ! 

Strew your hair with powders sweet, 

Don clean linen, bathe your feet : 

And (the foul fiend more to check) 

A crucifix let bless your neck. 

'Tis now full tide 'tween night and day : 

End your groan, and come away ! 
Car. Hence, villains, tyrants, murderers ! Alas ! 
What will you do with my lady ? Call for help ! 

Duck. To whom ? to our next neighbours ? They are 

mad folks. 
Farewell, Cariola ! 

I pray thee, look thou giv'st my little boy 
Some sirup for his cold ; and let the girl 
Say her prayers ere she sleep. — Now what you please : 
What death ? 

Bos. Strangling. Here are your executioners. 
Duck. I forgive them. 
The apoplexy, catarrh, or cough o' the lungs, 
Would do as much as they do. 
Bos. Doth not death fright you ? 
Duck. Who would be afraid on't, 
Knowing to meet such excellent company 
In th' other world ? 



i 



WEBSTER. 97 

Bos. Yet, methinks, 
The manner of your death should much afflict you ; 
This cord should terrify you. 

Duck, Not a whit. 
What would it pleasure me to have my throat cut 
With diamonds ? or to be smothered 
With cassia ? or to be shot to death with pearls ? 
I know, death hath ten thousand several doors 
For men to take their exits ; and 'tis found 
They go on such strange geometrical hinges, 
You may open them both ways, any way (for Heaven's sake) 
So I were out of your whispering. Tell my brothers, 
That I perceive, death (now I'm well awake) 
Best gift is, they can give or I can take. 
I would fain put off my last woman's fault ; 
Pd not be tedious to you. 
Pull, and pull strongly, for your able strength 
Must pull down heaven upon me. 
Yet stay : heaven gates are not so highly arched 
As princes' palaces ; they that enter there 
Must go upon their knees. — Come, violent death, 
Serve for mandragora to make me sleep. 
Go tell my brothers ; when I am laid out, 
They then may feed in quiet. [ They 'strangle her, kneeling. 

Ferdinand enters. 

Ferd. Is she dead ? 

Bos. She is what you would have her. 
Fix your eye here. 

Ferd. Constantly. 

Bos. Do you not weep ? 
Other sins only speak; murder shrieks out ! 



9^ GOLDEN LEAVES. 

The element of water moistens the earth, 

But blood flies upwards and bedews the heavens. 

Ferd. Cover her face • mine eyes dazzle : she died young. 

Bos. I think not so : her infelicity 
Seemed to have years too many. 

Ferd. She and I were twins ; 
And should I die this instant, I had lived 
Her time to a minute. . . . 



!oI)it Ularston. 

THE HISTORY OF ANTONIO AND MELLIDA. 

Andrugio, Duke of Genoa, banished his Country, uoith the loss of a Son % 
supposed droivned, is cast upon the territory of his mortal tnc;ny the 
Duke of Venice, ivith no attendants but Lucio, an old Nobleman, and 
a Page. 

Andr. Is not yon gleam the shudd'ring Morn, that flakes 
With silver tincture the east verge of heaven ? 

Luc. I think it is, so please your excellence. 

Andr. Away ! I have no excellence to please. 
Prithee, observe the custom of the v/orld, 
That only flatters greatness, states exalts. 
And please my excellence ! O Lucio, 
Thou hast been ever held respected, dear, 
Even precious to Andrugio's inmost love : 
Good, flatter not. 

My thoughts are fixed in contemplation 
Why this huge Earth, this monstrous animal 
That eats her children, should not have eyes and ears. 
Philosophy maintains that Nature's wise, 



31 A RSTO X. 99 

And forms no useless nor imperfect thing. 

Did Nature make the Earth, or the Earth Nature ? 

For earthly dirt makes all things, makes the man, 

Moulds me up honour, and, like a cunning Dutchman, 

Paints me a puppet even with seeming breath, 

And gives a sot appearance of a soul. 

Go to, go to ; thou ly'st, Philosophy ! 

Nature forms things unperfect, useless, vain. 

Why made she not the Earth with eyes and ears, 

That she might see desert, and hear men's plaints ? 

That when a soul is splitted, sunk with grief, 

He might fall thus upon the breast of Earth, 

And in her ear halloo his misery, 

Exclaiming thus : O thou all-bearing Earth, 

Which men do gape for till thou cramm'st their mouths 

And chok'st their throats with dust : open thy breast, 

And let me sink into thee ! Look who knocks : 

Andrugio calls. But oh, she's deaf and blind ! 

A wretch but lean relief on earth can find. 

Luc. Sweet lord, abandon passion, and disarm. 
Since by the fortune of the tumbling sea 
We are rolled up upon the Venice marsh, 
Let's clip all fortune, lest more low'ring fate 

Andr. More low'ring fate ! O Lucio, choke that breath. 
Now I defy Chance! Fortune's brow hath frowne - , 
Even to the utmost wrinkle it can bend ; 
Her venom's spit. Alas ! what country rests, 
What son, what comfort, that she can deprive? 
Triumphs not Venice in my overthrow ? 
Gapes not my native country for my blood ? 
Lies not my son tombed in the swelling main ? 
And in more low'ring fate ? There's nothing lefr 



loo GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Unto Andrugio but Andrugio : And that 
Nor mischief, force, distress, nor hell can take ! 
Fortune my fortunes, not my mind shall shake. 

Luc. Speak like yourself; but give me leave, my lord, 
To wish you safety. If you are but seen, 
Your arms display you ; therefore put them off, 
And take 

Andr. Wouldst have me go unarmed among my foes ? 
Being besieged by Passion, entering lists 
To combat with Despair and mighty Grief: 
My soul beleaguered with the crushing strength 
Of sharp Impatience. Ha ! Lucio ; go unarmed ? 
Come, soul, resume the valour of thy birth; 
Myself myself will dare all opposites ; 
I'll muster forces, an unvanquished power; 
Cornets of horse shall press th' ungrateful Earth ; 
This hollow-wombed mass shall inly groan 
And murmur to sustain the weight of arms ; 
Ghastly Amazement, with upstarted hair, 
Shall hurry on before, and usher us, 
Whilst trumpets clamour with a sound of death. 

Luc. Peace, good my lord, your speech is all too light. 
Alas ! survey your fortunes ; look what's left 
Of all your forces and your utmost hopes ; 
A weak old man, a page, and your poor self. 

Andr. Andrugio lives ; and a fair cause of arms, 
Why, that's an army all invincible. 
He who hath that, hath a battalion royal, 
Armour of proof, huge troops of barbed steeds, 
Main squares of pikes, millions of harquebuse. 
Oh, a fair cause stands firm, and will abide ; 
Legions of angels fight upon her side ! 



I 

CHAPMAX. lOl 



(&zov%t Cljapman. 

BYRON 'S CONSPIRACY. 

Mens Glories eclipsed ivhen they turn Traitors. 

As when the Moon hath comforted the Night, 
And set the world in silver of her light, 
The planets, asterisms, and whole State of Heaven, 
In beams of gold descending : all the winds 
Bound up in caves, charged not to drive abroad 
Their cloudy heads : an universal peace 
(Proclaimed in silence) of the quiet Earth — 
Soon as her hot and dry fumes are let loose, 
Storms and clouds mixing suddenly put out 
The eyes of all those glories ; the creation 
Turned into chaos ; and we then desire, 
For all our joy of life, the death of sleep. 
So when the glories of our lives (men's loves, 
Clear consciences, our fames and loyalties), 
That did us worthy comfort, are eclipsed, 
Grief and disgrace invade us ; and for all 
Our night of life besides, our misery craves 
Dark Earth would ope and hide us in our graves. 

Master-Spirit. 

Give me a spirit that on life's rough sea 
Loves to have his sails filled with a lusty wind, 
Even till his sail-yards tremble, his masts crack, 
And his rapt ship run on her side so low, 
That she drinks water, and her keel ploughs air. 
There is no danger to a man, that knows 
What life and death is : there's not any law 



102 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Exceeds his knowledge ; neither is it lawful 
That he should stoop to any other law : 
He goes before them, and commands them all, 
That to himself is a law rational. 

Innocence the Harmony of the Faculties. 

.... Innocence, the sacred amulet 
'Gainst all the poisons of infirmity, 
Of all misfortune, injury, and death ; 
That makes a man in tune still in himself; 
Free from the hell to be his own accuser ; 
Ever in quiet, endless joy enjoying, 
No strife nor no sedition in his powers ; 
No motion in his will against his reason ; 
No thought 'gainst thought ; nor (as 'twere in the confines 
Of whispering and repenting) both possess 
Only a wayward and tumultuous peace ; 
But, all parts in him friendly and secure, 
Fruitful of all best things in all worst seasons, 
He can with every wish be in their plenty. 



THE ROYAL KING AND THE LOYAL SUBJECT. 

Noble Traitor. 

.... A Persian history 
I read of late, how the great Sophy once 
Flying a noble falcon at the heme, 
In comes by chance an eagle sousing by : 



MI DDL ETON. 103 

Which, when the hawk espies, leaves her first game, 
And boldly ventures on the king of birds. 
Long tugged they in the air, till at the length 
The falcon (better breath'd) seized on the eagle, 
And struck it dead. The barons praised the bird, 
And for her courage she was peerless held. 
The emperor, after some deliberate thoughts, 
Made her no less ; he caused a crown of gold 
To be new framed, and fitted to her head, 
In honour of her courage : then the bird, 
With great applause, was to the market-place 
In triumph borne ; where, when her utmost worth 
Had been proclaimed, the common executioner 
First by the king's command took off her crown, 
And after with a sword struck off her head,, 
As one no better than a noble traitor 
Unto the king of birds. 



Stomas flUbbldcm. 

the witch: a tragi-comed y. 
Hecate, and the other Witches, at their charms. 

Hec. Titty and Tiffin, Suckin 
And Pidgen, Liard and Robin ! 
White spirits, black spirits, gray spirits, red spirits, 
Devil-toad^ devil-ram, devil-cat, and devil dam, 
Why, Hoppo and Stadlin, Hellwain and Puckle ! 

Stad. Here, sweating at the vessel. 



104 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Hec. Boil it well. 

Hop. It gallops now ! 

Hec. Are the flames blue enough, 
Or shall I use a little seeten* more ? 

Stad. The nips of fairies upon maids' white hips 
Are not more perfect azure. 

Hec. Tend it carefully. 
Send Stadlin to me with a brazen dish, 
That I may fall to work upon these serpents, 
And squeeze 'em ready for the second hour. 
Why ! when ? 

Stad. Here's Stadlin, and the dish. 

Hec. Here, take this unbaptized brat ! 
Boil it well — preserve the fat : 
You know 'tis precious to transfer 
Our 'nointed flesh into the air, 
In moonlight nights, o'er steeple-tops, 
Mountains, and pine-trees, that like pricks, or stops, 
Seem to our height : high towers, and roofs of princes, 
Like wrinkles in the earth : whole provinces 
Appear to our sight then even like 
A russet mole upon some lady's cheek. 
When hundred leagues in air, we feast and sing, 
Dance, kiss, and coll, use every thing : 
What young man can we wish to pleasure us, 
But we enjoy him in an incubus ? 
Thou know'st it, Stadlin ? 

Stad. Usually that's done. 

Hec. Away ! in ! 
Go feed the vessel for the second hour. 

* Seething. 



MID D LET ON. 105 

Stad. Where be the magical herbs ? 

Hec. They're down his throat,* 
His mouth crammed mil ; his ears and nostrils stuffed. 
I thrust in eleaselinum, lately 
Aconitum, frondes populeas, and soot. 
You may see that, he looks so black i' th' mouth. 
Then sium, acharum, vulgaro too, 
Dentaphillon, the blood of a flitter-mouse, 
Solanum somnificum et oleum. 

Stad. Then there's all, Hecate. 

Hec. Is the heart of wax * 

Stuck full of magic needles ? 

Stad. 'Tis done, Hecate. 

Hec. And is the farmer's picture, and his wife's, 
Laid down to the fire yet ? 

Stad. They are a-roasting both, too. 

Hec. Good! 
Then their marrows are a-melting subtilly^ 
And three months' sickness sucks up life in 'em. 
They denied me often flour, barm, and milk, 
Goose-grease and tar, when I ne'er hurt their churnings, 
Their brew-locks nor their batches, nor forespoke 
Any of their breedings. Now I'll be meet with 'em. 
Seven of their young pigs I have bewitched already 
Of the last litter, nine ducklings, thirteen goslings, and a hog, 
Fell lame last Sunday, after even-song too. 
And mark how their sheep prosper ; or what soup 
Each milch-kine gives to th' pail : I'll send these snakes 
Shall milk 'em all beforehand; the dewed skirted dairy-wench 
Shall stroke dry dugs for this, and go home cursing ! 

* The dead child's. 



io6 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

I'll mar their sillabubs, and swarthy feastings 
Under cows' bellies, with the parish youths. 

Hecate, Stadlin, Hoppo, with the other Witches, pre- 
paring for their midnight journey through the air. 
Firestone, Hecate's Son. 

Hec. The Moon's a gallant : see how brisk she rides ! 

Stad. Here's a rich evening, Hecate. 

Hec. Ay, is't not, wenches, 
To take a journey of five thousand mile ? 

Hop, Ours will be more to-night. 

Hec, Oh, 'twill be precious ! 
Heard you the owl yet ? 

Stad, Briefly in the copse, 
As we came through now. 

Hec, 'Tis high time for us, then. 

Stad. There was a bat hung at my lips three times 
As we came through the woods, and drank her fill. 
Old Puckle saw her. 

Hec, You are fortunate still : 
The very screech-owl lights upon your shoulder, 
And woos you like a pigeon. Are you furnished ? 
Have you your ointments ? 

Stad. All. 

Hec, Prepare to flight, then 
I'll overtake you swiftly. 

Stad, Hie thee, Hecate ! 
We shall be up betimes. 

Hec, I'll reach you quickly. [ The other Witches mount. 

Fire, They are all going a-birding to-night. They talk 
of fowls in the air, that fly by day ; I am sure, they'll be a 
company of foul sluts there to-night. If we have not mor- 



MID D LET OX. 107 

tality offered,* I'll be hanged; for they are able to putrefy 
it, to infect a whole region. — She spies me now. 

Hec. What ! Firestone, our sweet son ? 

Fire. A little sweeter than some of you ; or a dunghill 
were too good for me. 

Hec. How much hast here ? 

Fire. Nineteen, and all brave plump ones ; besides six 
lizards, and three serpentine eggs. 

Hec, Dear and sweet boy, what herbs hast thou ? 

Fire. I have some marmartin and mandragon. 

Hec. Marmaritin and mandragora, thou wouldst say. 

Fire. Here's pannax too : I thank thee, my pan aches, 
I am sure, with kneeling down to cut 'em. 

Hec. And selago, 
Hedge-hyssop too : how near he goes my cuttings ! 
Were they all cropped by moonlight ? 

Fire. Every blade of 'em, or I am a moon-calf, mother. 

Hec. Hie thee home with 'em. 
Look well to the house to-night ; I am for aloft. 

Fire. Aloft, quoth you ? I would you would break your 
neck once, that I might have all quickly. Hark ! hark, 
mother ! they are above the steeple already, flying over 
your head with a noise of musicians. 

Hec. They are indeed. Help me, help me ! I'm too 

late else. 

Song in the Air. 

Come away, come away ! 
Hecate, Hecate, come away ! 
Hec. I come, I come, I come, I come, 
With all the speed I may, 

* Probably the true reading is after V. 



108 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

With all the speed I may ! 
Where's Stadlin ? 

[Above.] Here ! 

Hec. Where's Puckle ? 

[Above.] Here ! — 
And Hoppo too, and Hellwain too : 
We lack but you, we lack but you ; 
Come away ! make up the count. 

Hec. I will but 'noint, and then I mount. 

[A Spirit like a cat descends. 

[Above.] There's one come down to fetch his dues; 
A kiss, a coll, a slip of blood : 
And why thou stay'st so long, I muse, I muse, 
Since the air's so sweet and good. 

Hec. Oh, art thou come ? 
What news ? what news ? 

Spirit. All goes still to our delight : 
Either come, or else 
Refuse, refuse. 

Hec. Now I am furnished for the flight. 

Fire. Hark, hark ! the cat sings a brave treble in her 
own language. 

Hec. [Going up.] Now I go, now I fly, 
Malkin my sweet Spirit and I. 
Oh, what a dainty pleasure 'tis 
To ride in the air 
When the moon shines fair, 
And sing, and dance, and toy, and kiss ! 
Over woods, high rocks, and mountains, 
Over seas (our mistress' fountains), 
Over steep towers and turrets, 
We fly by night 'mongst troops of spirits. 



MIDDLETON. 109 

No ring of bells to our ears sounds, 

No howls of wolves, no yelps of hounds ; 

No, not the noise of water's breach, 

Or cannon's throat, our height can reach. 

\Above^\ No ring of bells, &c. 

Fire. Well, mother, I thank your kindness ; you must be 
Gambolling in the air, and leave me to walk here like a fool 
and a mortal. . . . 

A Charm-Song about a Vessel. 

Hec. Black spirits and white, red spirits and gray, 

Mingle, mingle, mingle, you that mingle may. 

Titty, Tiffin, keep it stiff in ; 

Fire-drake, Puckey, make it lucky ; 

Liard, Robin, you must bob in. 

Round, around, around, about, about; 

All ill come running in, all good keep out ! 
First Witch. Here's the blood of a bat. . 
Hec. Put in that — oh, put in that ! 
Sec. Witch. Here's libbard's bane. 
Hec. Put in again. 

First Witch. The juice of toad ; the oil of adder. 
Sec. Witch. Those will make the younker madder. 
Hec. Put in, there's all, and rid the stench. 
Fire. Nay, here's three ounces of the red-haired wench. 
All. Round, around, around, &c. 
Hec. So, so, enough : into the vessel with it. 
There — 't hath the true perfection ! I am so light* 
At any mischief, there's no villany 
But is a tune, methinks. 

* Light-hearted. 



no GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Fire. A tune ! 'tis to the tune of damnation, then, I 
warrant you, 
And that song hath a villanous burthen. 

Hec. Come, my sweet sisters, let the air strike our tune; 
Whilst we show reverence to yon peeping moon. 

- [ The Witches dance, et exeunt 



NO WIT 

}■ LIKE A WOMANS. 
HELP 

Virtuous Poverty. 

'Life ! had he not his answer ? v/hat strange impudence 
Governs in man, when lust is lord of him ! 
Thinks he me mad ? 'cause I have no moneys on earth, 
That I'll go forfeit my estate in heaven, 
And live eternal beggar ? He shall pardon me ; 
That's my soul's jointure ; I'll starve ere I sell that ! 

Good and III Fortune. 

. . . . O my blessing ! 
I feel a hand of mercy lift me up 
Out of a world of waters, and now sets me 
Upon a mountain, where the sun plays most, 
To cheer my heart even as it dries my limbs. 
What deeps I see beneath me ! in whose falls 
Many a nimble mortal toils, 

And scarce can feed himself: the streams of fortune, 
'Gainst which he tugs in vain, still beat him down, 
And will not suffer him (past hand to mouth) 
To lift his arm to his posterities' blessing. 
I see a careful sweat run in a ring 
About his temples, but all will not do : 



TOURNEUR. ill 

For till some happy means relieve his state, 
There he must stick, and bide the wrath of Fate. 

Parting in Amity. 

.... Let our parting 
Be full as charitable as our meeting was ; 
That the pale envious world, glad of the food 
Of others' miseries, civil dissensions, 
And nuptial strifes, may not feed fat with ours. 



<£|)ril (ftourneur. 

THE REVENGER'S TRAGEDY. 

The Brothers Vindici and Hippolito threaten their Mother ivith death 
for consenting to the dishonour of their Sister. 

Vin. O thou for whom no name is bad^ enough ! 

Moth. What mean my sons ? What ! will you murther 
me ? 

Vin, Wicked, unnatural parent ! 

Hip, Friend of women ! 

Moth. Oh ! are sons turned monsters ? — Help ! 

Vin. In vain. 

Moth. Are ye so barbarous to set iron nipples 
Upon the breast that gave you suck ? 

Vin, That breast 
Is turned to quarled poison. 

Moth. Cut not your days for't. Am not I your mother r 

Vin, Thou dost usurp that title now by fraud, 

For in that shell of mother breeds a bawd. 

Moth*, A bawd ! O name far loathsomer than hell ! 
6 



I 



<* 
^ 



112 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Hip. It should be so, knew'st thou thy office well. 

Moth. I hate it. 

Vin. Ah, is it possible, you powers on high, 
That women should dissemble when they die ? 

Moth. Dissemble ! 

Vin. Did not the duke's son direct 
A fellow of the world's condition hither, 
That did corrupt all that was good in thee ? 
Made thee uncivilly forget thyself, 
And work our sister to his purpose ? 

Moth. Who, I ? 
That had been monstrous. I defy that man 
For any such intent. None lives so pure, 
But shall be soiled with slander. 
Good son, believe it not. 

Vin. Oh, I'm in doubt 
Whether I am myself or no ! — 
Stay, let me look again upon this face. 
Who shall be saved when mothers have no grace r 

[Resumes his disguise. 

Hip. 'Twould make one half despair. 

Vin. I was the man. 
Defy me now ; let's see, do't modestly. 

Moth. Oh, hell unto my soul ! 

Vin. In that disguise, I, sent from the duke's son, 
Tried you, and found you base metal, 
As any villain might have done. 

Moth. Oh, no, 
No tongue but yours could have bewitched me so. 

Vin. O nimble in damnation, quick in turn ! 
There is no devil could strike fire so soon. 
I am confuted in a word. 



* 



TOURNEUR. 113 



Moth. O sons, 
Forgive me ! to myself I'll prove more true ; 
You that should honour me, I kneel to you. 

Vin. A mother to give aim to her own daughter ! 

Hip. True, brother ; how far beyond nature 'tis, 
Though many mothers do it ! 

Via. Nay, and you draw tears once, go you to bed ; 
Wet will make iron blush, and change to red. 
Brother, it rains, — 'twill spoil your dagger ; house it. 

Hip. 'Tis done. 

Vin. V faith, 'tis a sweet shower ; it does much good. 
The fruitful grounds and meadows of her soul 
Have been long dry : pour down, thou blessed dew ! 
Rise, mother; troth, this shower has made you higher. 

Moth. O you Heavens ! 
Take this infectious spot out of my soul ; 
I'll rinse it in seven waters of mine eyes. 
Make my tears salt enough to taste of grace. 
To weep is to our sex naturally given ; 
But to weep truly, that's a gift from heaven. 

Vin. Nay, I'll kiss you now. Kiss her, brother : 
Let's marry her to our souls, wherein's no lust, 
And honourably love her. 

Hip. Let it be. 

Vin. For honest women are so seld and rare, 
'Tis good to cherish those poor few that are. 
O you of easy wax ! do but imagine, 
Now the disease has left you, how leprously 
That office would have dinged unto your forehead ! 
All mothers that had any graceful hue, 
Would have worn masks to hide their face at you. 
It would have grown to this, at your foul name 



H4 G OLDEN LEAVES. 

Green-coloured maids would have turned red with shame. 

Hip. And then our sister, full of hire and baseness 

Vin. There had been boiling lead again ! 
The duke's son's great concubine ! 
A drab of state, a cloth-o'- silver slut, 
To have her train borne up, and her soul trail in the dirt ! 

Hip. To be great, miserable ; — to be rich, eternally 
wretched ! 

Vin. O common madness ! 
Ask but the thriving'st harlot in cold blood, 
She'd give the world to make her honour good. 
Perhaps you'll say, but only to the duke's son 
In private ; why, she first begins with one 
Who afterwards to thousands proves a whore : 
Break ice in one place, it will crack in more. 

Moth. Most certainly applied. 

Hip. O brother, you forget our business. 

Vin. Arid well remembered. Joy's a subtle elf; 
I think man's happiest when he forgets himself. 
Farewell, once dry, now holy-watered mead; 
Our hearts wear feathers that before wore lead. 

Moth. I'll give you this : that one I never knew 
Plead better for, and 'gainst the devil than you. 

Vin. You make me proud on't. 

Hip. Commend us in all virtue to our sister. 

Vin. Ay, for the love of Heaven, to that true maid. 

Moth. With my best words. 

Vin. Why, that was motherly said. 



FORD. 115 



lol)n Jbrb. 



THE BROKEN HEART. 

While Calantha* {Princess of Sparta) is celebrating the Nuptials of 
Prophilus and Euphranea, at Court, ivith music and dancing, one 
enters to inform her that the King her Father is dead; a second 
brings the nevus that Penthea (Sister to Ithocles) is starved; and 
a third comes to tell that Ithocles himself (to whom the Princess is 
contracted) is cruelly murdered. 

Calantha, Pr.ophi.lus, Euphranea, Nearchus, Crotolon, 
Christalla, Philema, and others. 

Cal. We miss our servant Ithocles, and Orgilus ; 
On whom attend they? 

CroL My son, gracious princess, 
Whispered some new device, to which these revels 
Should be but usher : wherein, I conceive, 
Lord Ithocles and he himself are actors. * 

Cal. A fair excuse for absence : as for Bassanes, 
Delights to him are troublesome ; Armostes 
Is with the king. 

CroL He is. 

Cal. On to the dance ! 
(To Nearchus.) Dear cousin, hand you the bride; the 

bridegroom must be 
Intrusted to my courtship : be not jealous, 
Euphranea ; I shall scarcely prove a temptress. 
Fall to our dance ! 

* The princess is won by the solicitations of Penthea, and by the 
real deserts of Ithocles, to requite his love, and they are contracted 
with the consent of the king her father. 



Ii6 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

They dance the first change, during which Armostes 
enters. 
Arm. The king your father's dead. 
CaL To the other change ! 
Ann. Is it possible ? 

They dance again. — Bassanes enters. 

Bass. O madam, 
Penthea, poor Penthea, is starved ! 

CaL Beshrew thee ! — 
Lead to the next ! 

Bass. Amazement dulls my senses. 

They dance again.-^ORGihvs enters. 

Org. Brave Ithocles is murdered, murdered cruelly ! 

CaL How dull this music sounds ! Strike up more 
sprightly : 
Our footings are not active like our heart, 
Which treads the nimbler measure. 

Org. I am thunder-struck ! 

They dance the last change. — The music ceases. 

CaL So let us breathe awhile. Hath not this motion 
Raised fresher colour on your cheeks ? [ To Nearchus. 

Near. Sweet princess, 
A perfect purity of blood enamels 
The beauty of your white. 

CaL We all look cheerfully ; 
And, cousin, 'tis methinks a rare presumption 
In any, who prefers our lawful pleasures 
Before their own sour censure, to interrupt 
The custom of this ceremony bluntly. 



FORD. 117 

Near. None dares, Lady. 

Cal. Yes, yes ; some hollow voice delivered to me 
How that the King was dead. 

Arm. The King is dead : 
That fatal news was mine ; for in mine arms 
He breathed his last, and with his crown bequeathed you 
Your mother's wedding-ring, which here I tender. 

Grot. Most strange ! 

Cal. Peace crown his ashes ! — We are Queen, then. 

Near. Long live Calantha, Sparta's sovereign Queen ! 

All. Long live the Queen ! 

Cal. What whispered Bassanes ? 

Bass. That my Penthea,* miserable soul ! 
Was starved to death. 

Cal. She's happy ; she hath finished 
A long and painful progress. — A third murmur 
Pierced mine unwilling ears. 

Org. That Ithocles 
Was murdered. 

Cal. By whose hand ? 

Org. By mine : this weapon 
Was instrument to my revenge. The reasonsf 
Are just and known. Quit him of these, and then 
Never lived gentleman of greater merit, 
Hope, or abiliment to steer a kingdom. 

Cal. We begin our reign 
With a first act of justice : thy confession, 
Unhappy Orgilus, dooms thee a sentence ; 

* Wife to Bassanes. 

f Penthea (sister to Ithocles) was betrothed at first to Orgilus, but 
compelled by her brother to marry Bassanes ; by which forced match 
she, becoming miserable, refused to take food, and died. 



li8 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

But yet thy father's or thy sister's presence 
Shall be excused. Give, Crotolon,* a blessing 
To thy lost son : Euphranea,f take a farewell ; 
And both begone ! — 

(To Orgilus.) Bloody relater of thy stains in blood ! 
For that thou hast reported him (whose fortunes 
And life by thee are both at once snatched from him) 
With honourable mention, make thy choice 
Of what death likes thee best : there's all our bounty. 
But to excuse delays, let me, dear cousin, 
Entreat you and these lords see execution — 
Instant, before ye part ! 

Near. Your will commands us. 

Org. One suit, just Queen — my last ! Vouchsafe your 
clemency, 
That by no common hand I be divided 
From this my humble frailty. 

CaL To their wisdoms, 
Who are to be spectators of thine end, 
I make the reference. Those that are dead, 
Are dead ; had they not now died, of necessity 
They must have paid the debt they owed to Nature 
One time or other. Use dispatch, my lords. — 
We'll suddenly prepare our coronation. [Exit. 

Arm. 'Tis strange these tragedies should never touch on 
Her female pity. 

Bass. She has a masculine spirit. 

The Coronation of the Princess takes place after the Execution of Orgi- 
lus. — She enters the Temple, dressed in ivhite, having a Croiun on 
her Head. She kneels at the Altar. The dead Body of Ithocxes 

* His father. f His sister. 



FORD. 119 

{whom she should ha-ve married) is borne on a Hearse, in rich Robes, 
having a Crozun on his Head, and placed by the side of the Altar, 
ivhere she kneels. Her Devotions ended, she rises. 

Calantha, Nearchus, Prophilus, Crotolon, Bassakes, 

Armostes, Euphranea, Amelus, Christalla, Phill;,a, 

and others. 

Cal. Our orisons are heard ; the gods are merciful. 
Now tell me,, you whose loyalties pay tribute 
To us your lawful sovereign, how unskilful 
Your duties, or obedience is, to render 
Subjection to the sceptre of a virgin ; 
Who have been ever fortunate in princes 
Of masculine and stirring composition. 
A woman has enough to govern wisely 
Her own demeanours, passions, and divisions. 
A nation warlike, and inured to practice 
Of policy and labour, cannot brook 
A feminate authority : we therefore 
Command your counsel, how you may advise us 
In choosing of a husband, whose abilities 
Can better guide this kingdom. 

Near. Royal Lady, 
Your law is in your will. 

Arm. We have seen tokens 
Of constancy too lately to mistrust it. 

Crot. Yet if your Highness settle on a choice 
By your own judgment both allowed and liked of, 
Sparta may grow in power, and proceed 
To an increasing height. 

Cal. Cousin of Argos, 

Near. Madam. 

Cal. Were I presently 
6* 



120 G OLDEN LEAVES. 

To choose you for my lord, I'll open freely 
What articles I would propose to treat on, 
Before our marriage. 

Near. Name them, virtuous Lady. 

Cal. I would presume you would retain the royalty 
Of Sparta in her own bounds : then in Argos 
Armostes might be viceroy ; in Messene 
Might Crotolon bear sway ; and Bassanes 
Be Sparta's marshal. 

The multitudes of high employments could not 
But set a peace to private griefs. These gentlemen, 
Groneas and Lemophil, with worthy pensions, 
Should wait upon your person in your chamber. 
I would bestow Christalla on Amelus ; 
She'll prove a constant wife : and Philema 
Should into Vesta's temple. 

Bass. This is a testament ; 
It sounds not like conditions on a marriage. 

Near. All this should be performed. 

Cal. Lastly, for Prophilus, 
He should be (cousin) solemnly invested 
In all those honours, titles, and preferments, 
Which his dear friend and my neglected husband 
Too short a time enjoyed. 

Proph. I am unworthy 
To live in your remembrance. 

Euph. Excellent Lady. 

Near. Madam, what means that word, neglected husband ? 

Cal. Forgive me ! — Now I turn to thee, thou shadow 
[ To the dead body of Ithocles. 
Of my contracted lord ! Bear witness all, 
I put my mother's wedding-ring upon 



FORD. 121 

His finger ; 'twas my father's last bequest : 

Thus I new marry him, whose wife I am ; 

Death shall not separate us. O my lords, 

I but deceived your eyes with antic gesture, 

When one news straight came huddling on another, 

Of death, and death, and death ; still I danced forward ; 

But it struck home, and here, and in an instant. 

Be such mere women, who with shrieks and outcries 

Can vow a present end to all their sorrows ; 

Yet live to vow new pleasures, and outlive them. 

They are the silent griefs which cut the heart-strings : 

Let me die smiling. 

Near. 'Tis a truth too ominous. 

Cal. One kiss on these cold lips ; my last. Crack, crack ! 
Argos now's Sparta's King ! [Dies, 



THE LOVER'S MELANCrtOLY. 

Contention of a Nightingale and a Musician. 

Passing from Italy to Greece, the tales 
Which poets of an elder time have feigned, 
To glorify their Tempe, bred in me 
Desire of visiting that paradise. 
To Thessaly I came, and living private, 
Without acquaintance of more sweet companions 
Than the old inmates to my love, my thoughts, 
I day by day frequented silent groves, 
And solitary walks. One morning early 
This accident encountered me : I heard 
The sweetest and most ravishing contention 
That Art or Nature ever were at strife in. 



122 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

A sound of music touched mine ears, or rather. 

Indeed, entranced my soul : as I stole nearer, 

Invited, by the melody, I saw 

This youth, this fair-faced youth, upon his lute, 

With strains of strange variety and harmony, 

Proclaiming (as it seemed) -so bold a challenge 

To the clear quiristers of the woods, the birds, 

That, as they flocked about him, all stood silent,. 

Wond'ring at what they heard. I wondered too. 

A Nightingale, 

Nature's best-skilled musician, undertakes 

The challenge ; and, for every several strain 

The well-shaped youth could touch, she sang her down ; 

He could not run division with more art 

Upon his quaking instrument, than she, 

The Nightingale, did with her various notes 

Reply to. 

Some time thus spent, the young man grew at last 

Into a pretty anger ; that a bird, 

Whom art had never taught clefs, moods, or notes, 

Should vie with him for mastery, whose study 

Had busied many hours to perfect practice : 

To end the controversy, in a rapture, 

Upon his instrument he plays so swiftly, 

So many voluntaries, and so quick, 

That there was curiosity and cunning, 

Concord in discord, lines of diff'ring method 

Meeting in one full centre of delight. 

The bird (ordained to be 

Music's first martyr) strove to imitate 

These several sounds : which when her warbling throat 

Failed in, for grief down dropped she on his lute, 



BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 12] 

And brake her heart ! It was the quaintest sadness, 

To see the conqueror upon her hearse 

To weep a funeral elegy of tears. 

He looks upon the trophies of his art, 

Then sighed, then wiped his eyes, then sighed, and cried, 

" Alas ! poor creature, I will soon revenge 

This cruelty upon the author of it. 

Henceforth this lute, guilty of innocent blood, 

Shall never more betray a harmless peace 

To an untimely end;" and in that sorrow, 

As he was pashing it against a tree, 

I suddenly stepped in. 



Beaumont a\\b Ikk\)n\ 

THE MAID'S TRAGEDY. 

Amintor, a noble Gentleman, promises Marriage to Aspatia, and for- 
sakes her, by the King's command, to ived Evadne. — The Grief of 
Aspatia at being forsaken, described. 

.... This lady 
Walks discontented, with her wat'ry eyes 
Bent on the earth : the unfrequented woods 
Are her delight ; and when she sees a bank 
Stuck full of flowers, she with a sigh will tell 
Her servants what a pretty place it were 
To bury lovers in ; and make her maids 
Pluck 'em, and strew her over like a corse. 
She carries with her an infectious grief 
That strikes all her beholders ; she will sing 
The mournfull'st things that ever ear have heard, 



124 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

And sigh, and sing again ; and when the rest 
Of our young ladies, in their wanton blood, 
Tell mirthful tales in course that fill the room 
With laughter, she will with so sad a look 
Bring forth a story of the silent death 
Of some forsaken virgin, which her grief 
Will put in such a phrase, that, ere she end, 
She'll send them weeping one by one away. 

The Marriage-Night of Amintor and Evadne. 
EVADNE, ASPATIA, DuLA, dTld OthtT Ladies. 

Evad. Would thou couldst instil [ To Dula. 

Some of thy mirth into Aspatia ! 

Asp. It were a timeless smile should prove my cheek ; 
It were a fitter hour for me to laugh, 
When at the altar the religious priest 
Were pacifying the offended powers 
With sacrifice, than now. This should have been 
My night, and all your hands have been employed 
In giving me, a spotless offering, 
To young Amintor's bed, as we are now 
For you. Pardon, Evadne, would my worth 
Were great as yours, or that the King, or he, 
Or both, thought so ! Perhaps he found me worthless ! 
But till he did so, in these ears of mine 
(These credulous ears) he poured the sweetest words 
That art or love could frame. 

Evad. Nay, leave this sad talk, madam. 

Asp. Would I could, then should I leave the cause. 
Lay a garland on my hearse of the dismal yew. 

Evad. That's one of your sad songs, madam. 



BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 125 

Asp. Believe me, 'tis a very pretty one. 

Evad. How is it, madam ? 

Asp. " Lay a garland on my hearse of the dismal yew ; 
Maidens, willow-branches bear ; say I died true : 
My love was false, but I was firm from my hour of birth ; 
Upon my buried body lay lightly, gentle earth." 
Madam, good-night ; — may no discontent 
Grow 'twixt your love and you ; but if there do, 
Inquire of me, and I will guide your moan, 
Teach you an artificial way to grieve, 
To keep your sorrow waking. Love your lord 
No worse than I ; but if you love so well, 
Alas ! you may displease him, so did I. 
This is the last time you shall look on me : 
Ladies, farewell ! As soon as I am dead, 
Come all, and watch one night about my hearse ; 
Bring each a mournful story and a tear 
To offer at it when I go to earth : 
With flattering ivy clasp my coffin round ; 
Write on my brow my fortune ; let my bier 
Be borne by virgins, that shall sing by course 
The truth of maids and perjuries of men. 
Evad. Alas ! I pity thee. 

Amintor enters. 

Asp. Go, and be happy in your lady's love ; 

[To Amintor. 
May all the wrongs that you have done to me, 
Be utterly forgotten in my death. 
I'll trouble you no more, yet I will take 
A parting kiss, and will not be denied. 
You'll come, my lord, and see the virgins weep 



126 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

When I am laid in earth, though you yourself 
Can know no pity : thus I wind myself 
Into this willow garland, and am prouder 
That I was once your love (though now refused), 
Than to have had another true to me. . . . 

Aspatia ivills her Maidens to be sorrowful, because she is so, 

Aspatia, Antiphila, Olympias. 

Asp. Come, let's be sad, my girls ; 
That down-cast of thine eye, Olympias, 
Shows a fine sorrow; mark, Antiphila, 
Just such another was the nymph CEnone, 
When Paris brought home Helen : now a tear, 
And then thou art a piece expressing fully 
The Carthage Queen, when from a cold sea-rock, 
Full with her sorrow, she tied fast her eyes 
To the fair Trojan ships, and having lost them, 
Just as thine eyes do, down stole a tear, Antiphila. 
What would this wench do, if she were Aspatia ? 
Here she would stand, till some more pitying god 
Turned her to marble. 'Tis enough, my wench : 
Show me the piece of needlework you wrought. 

Ant. Of Ariadne, madam ? 

Asp. Yes, that piece. 
This should be Theseus — h' as a cozening face ; 
You meant him for a man ? 

Ant. He was so, madam. 

Asp. Why, then, 'tis well enough. Never look back ; 
You have a full wind, and a false heart, Theseus. 
Does not the story say, his keel was split, 
Or his masts spent, or some kind rock or other 
Met with his vessel ? 



BEA TTMONt AND FLETCHER. 127 

Ant, Not as I remember. 

■ Asp, It should ha' been so : could the gods know this, 
And not of all their number raise a storm ? 
But they are all as ill. This false smile was well expressed ; 
Just such another caught me. You shall not go so, Anti- 

phila : 
In this place work a quicksand, 
And over it a shallow smiling water, 
And his ship ploughing it, — and then a fear. 
Do that fear to the life, wench ! 

Ant, 'Twill wrong the story. 

Asp, 'Twill make the story, wronged by wanton poets, 
Live long, and be believed. But where's the lady ? 

Ant, There, madam. 

Asp, Fie ! you have missed it here, Antiphila ; 
You are much mistaken, wench : 
These colours are not dull and pale enough, 
To show a soul so full of misery 
As this sad lady's was ; do it by me, — 
Do it again by me, the lost Aspatia, 
And you shall find all true but the wild island. 
I stand upon the sea-beach now, and think 
Mine arms thus, and mine hair blown with the wind, 
Wild as that desert, and let all about me 
Tell that I am forsaken : do my face 
(If thou hadst ever feeling of a sorrow) 
Thus, thus, Antiphila, — strive to make me look 
Like Sorrow's monument ; and the trees about me, 
Let them be dry and leafless ; let the rocks 
Groan with continual surges, and behind me 
Make all a desolation. — Look, look, wenches ! 
A miserable life of this poor picture. 



123 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Olym. Dear madam ! 

Asp. I have done. Sit down, and let us 
Upon that point fix all our eyes, that point there; 
Make a dull silence, till you feel a sudden sadness 
Give us new souls. 



PHILASTER ; OR, LOVE LIES A BLEEDING. 

Philaster tills the Princess Arethusa ho<w he first found the Boy 
Bellario. 

.... I have a boy sent by the gods, 
Not yet seen in the court ; hunting the buck, 
I found him sitting by a fountain-side, 
Of which he borrowed some to quench his thirst, 
And paid the nymph again as much in tears; 
A garland lay him by, made by himself 
Of many several flowers, bred in the bay, 
Stuck in that mystic order, that the rareness 
Delighted me : but ever when he turned 
His tender eyes upon them, he would weep, 
As if he meant to make them grow again. 
Seeing such pretty helpless innocence 
Dwell in his face, I asked him all his story : 
He told me that his parents gentle died, 
Leaving him to the mercy of the fields, 
Which gave him roots ; and of the crystal springs, 
Which did not stop their courses; and the sun, 
Which still, he thanked him, yielded him his light. 
Then took he up his garland, and did show 
What every flower, as country people hold, 
Did signify ; and how all, ordered thus, 



BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 129 

Expressed his grief: and to my thoughts did read 
The prettiest lecture of his country art 
That could be wished, so that, methought, I could 
Have studied it. I gladly entertained him, 
Who was as glad to follow ; and have got 
The trustiest, loving'st, and the gentlest boy, 
That ever master kept : him will I send 
To wait on you, and bear our hidden love. 

Philaster prefers Bellario to the Service of the Princess Arethusa. 

Phi. And thou shalt find her honourable, boy, 
Full of regard unto thy tender youth, 
For thine own modesty ; and, for my sake, 
Apter to give, than thou wilt be to ask, ay, or deserve. 

Bell. Sir, you did take me up when I was nothing, 
And only yet am something by being yours ; 
You trusted me unknown; and that which you are apt 
To construe a simple innocence in me, 
Perhaps might have been craft, the cunning of a boy 
Hardened in lies and theft ; yet ventured you 
To part my miseries and me : for which, 
I never can expect to serve a lady 
That bears more honour in her breast than you. 

Phi. But, boy, it will prefer thee ; thou art young, 
And bear'st a childish overflowing love 
To them that clap thy cheeks and speak thee fair yet. 
But when thy judgment comes to rule those passions, 
Thou wilt remember best those careful friends 
That placed thee in the noblest way of life : 
She is a princess I prefer thee to. 

BelL In that small time that I have seen the world, 
I never knew a man hasty to part 



130 G OLDEN LEAVES. 

With a servant he thought trusty ; I remember, 
My father would prefer the boys he kept 
To greater men than he, but did it not 
Till they were grown too saucy for himself. 

Phi. Why, gentle boy, I find no fault at all 
In thy behaviour. 

Bell. Sir, if I have made 
A fault of ignorance, instruct my youth ; 
I shall be willing, if not apt, to learn. 
Age and experience will adorn my mind 
With larger knowledge : and if I have done 
A wilful fault, think me not past all hope 
For once ; what master holds so strict a hand 
Over his boy, that he will part with him 
Without one warning ? Let me be corrected 
To break my stubbornness if it be so, 
Rather than turn me off, and I shall mend. 

Phi. Thy love doth plead so prettily to stay, 
That (trust me) I could weep to part with thee. 
Alas ! I do not turn thee off; thou knowest 
It is my business that doth call thee hence, 
And when thou art with her thou dwelPst with me : 
Think so, and 'tis so; and when time is full, 
That thou hast well discharged this heavy trust, 
Laid on so weak a one, I will again 
With joy receive thee ; as I live, I will ! 
Nay, weep not, gentle boy; 'tis more than time 
Thou didst attend the princess. 

Bell. I am gone ; 
But since I am to part with you, my lord, 
And none knows whether I shall live to do 
More service for you, take this little prayer : 



BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 131 

Heaven bless your loves, your fights, all your designs; 
May sick men, if they have your wish, be well ; 
And Heaven hate those you curse, though I be one ! 

Bellario describes to the Princess Arethusa the manner of his Master 
Philaster's love for her. 

Are. Sir, you are sad to change your service, is't not so ? 

Bell. Madam, I have not changed : I wait on you, 
To do him service. 

Are. Thou disclaim'st in me ; 
Tell me thy name. 

Bell. Bellario. 

Are. Thou canst sing and play ? 

Bell. If grief will give me leave, madam, I can. 

Are. Alas ! what kind of grief can thy years know ? 
Hadst thou a cursed master when thou went'st to school ? 
Thou art not capable of any other grief; 
Thy brows and cheeks are smooth as waters be, 
When no breath troubles them : believe me, boy, 
Care seeks out wrinkled brows, and hollow eyes, 
And builds himself caves to abide in them. 
Come, sir, tell me truly, does your lord love me ? 

Bell. Love, madam ? I know not what it is. 

Are. Canst thou know grief, and never yet knew'st love ? 
Thou art deceived, boy. Does he speak of me 
As if he wished me well ? 

Bell. If it be love, 
To forget all respect of his own friends, 
In thinking of your face ; if it be love, 
To sit cross-armed and sigh away the day, 
Mingled with starts, crying your name at loud 
And hastily, as men i' the streets do fire ; 



132 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

If it be love to weep himself away, 

When he but hears of any lady dead, 

Or killed, because it might have been your chance ; 

If, when he goes to rest (which will not be), 

'Twixt every prayer he says to name you once, 

As others drop a bead, be to be in love ; — 

Then, madam, I dare swear he loves you. 

Are. Oh, you're a cunning boy, and taught to lie 
For your lord's credit ; but thou know'st a lie 
That bears this sound, is welcomer to me 
Than any truth that says he loves me not. 

Philaster is jealous of Bellario ivith the Princess. 

Bell. Health to you, my lord ! 
The princess doth commend her love, her life, 
And this, unto you. 

Phi. O Bellario, 
Now I perceive she loves me ; she does show it 
In loving thee, my boy : she has made thee brave. 

Bell. My lord, she has attired me past my wish, 
Past my desert, — more fit for her attendant, 
Though far unfit for me who do attend. 

Phi. Thou art grown courtly, boy. Oh, let all women 
That love black deeds learn to dissemble here ! 
Here by this paper she does write to me 
As if her heart were mines of adamant 
To all the world besides, but unto me 
A maiden snow that melted with my looks. 
Tell me, my boy, how doth the princess use thee ? 
For I shall guess her love to me by that. 

Bell. Scarce like her servant, but as if I were 
Something allied to her ; or had preserved 



BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 133 

Her life three times by my fidelity ; 
As mothers fond do use their only sons ; 
As Pd use one that's left unto my trust, 
For whom my life should pay if he met harm, 
So she does use me. 

Phi. Why, this is wondrous well : 
But what kind language does she feed thee with ? 

Bell. Why, she does tell me, she will trust my youth 
With all her loving secrets, and does call me 
Her pretty servant, bids me weep no more 
For leaving you ; she'll see my services 
Regarded : and such words of that soft strain, 
That I am nearer weeping when she ends 
Than ere she spake. 

Phi. This is much better still ! 

Bell. Are you ill, my lord ? 

PAL 111? No, Bellario. 

Bell. Methinks your words 
Fall not from off your tongue so evenly, 
Nor is there in your looks that quietness, 
That I was wont to see. 

Phi. Thou art deceived, boy .-—And she strokes thy head ? 

Bell. Yes. 

Phi. And she does clap thy cheeks ? 

Bell. She does, my lord. 

Phi. And she does kiss thee, boy, ha ? 

Bell. How, my lord ? 

Phi. She kisses thee ? 

Bell. Not so, my lord. 

Phi. Come, come, I know she does. 

Bell. No, by my life ! — 
Ay, now I see why my disturbed thoughts 



134 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Were so perplexed when first I went to her : 
My heart held augury. You are abused, — 
Some villain has abused you ; I do see 
Whereto you tend. Fall rocks upon his head, 
That put this to you ! — 'tis some subtle train 
To bring that noble frame of yours to naught. 

Phi. Thou think'st I will be angry with thee. Come 
Thou shalt know all my drift. I hate her more 
Than I love happiness, and placed thee there 
To pry with narrow eyes into her deeds. 
Hast thou discovered ? — is she falPn to lust, 
As I would wish her ? Speak some comfort to me. 

Bell. My lord, you did mistake the boy you sent : 
Had she a sin that way, hid from the world, 
I would not aid 

Her base desires ; but what I came to know 
As servant to her, I would not reveal, 
To make my life last ages. 

Phi. O my heart ! 
This is a salve worse than the main disease. 
Tell me thy thoughts ; for I will know the least 
That dwells within thee, or will rip thy heart 
To know it ! I will see thy thoughts as plain 
As I do know thy face. 

Bell. Why, so you do. 
She is (for aught I know), by all the gods, 
As chaste as ice ! — but were she foul as hell, 
And I did know it, thus — the breath of kings, 
The points of swords, tortures, nor bulls of brass, 
Should draw it from me ! 

Phi. Then it is no time 



BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 135 

To dally with thee : I will take thy life, 
For I do hate thee ; I could curse thee now ! 

Bell. If you do hate, you could not curse me worse ; 
The gods have not a punishment in store 
Greater for me than is your hate. 

Phi. Fie, fie ! 
So young and so dissembling ! Fear'st thou not death ? 
Can boys contemn that ? 

Bell. Oh, what a boy is he 
Can be content to live to be a man, 
That sees the best of men thus passionate, 
Thus without reason ? 

Phi. Oh, but thou dost not know what 'tis to die ! 

Bell. Yes, I do know, my lord. 
'Tis less than to be born ; a lasting sleep, 
A quiet resting from all jealousy; 
A thing we all pursue ; I know, besides, 
It is but giving over of a game 
That must be lost. 

Phi. But there are pains, false boy, 
For perjured souls ; think but on these, and then 
Thy heart will melt, and thou wilt utter all. 

Bell. May they fall all upon me whilst I live, 
If I be perjured, or ever thought 
Of that you charge me with. If I be false, 
Send me to suffer in those punishments 
You speak of; kill me. 

Phi. Oh, what should I do ? — 
Why, who can but believe him ? He does swear 
So earnestly, that if it were not true, 
The gods would not endure him. Rise, Bellario ! 
Thy protestations are so deep, and thou 
7 



136 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Dost look so truly when thou utter'st them, 
That though I know them false, as were my hopes, 
I cannot urge thee further : but thou wert 
To blame to injure me, for I must love 
Thy honest looks, and take no revenge upon 
Thy tender youth : a love from me to thee 
Is firm, whate'er thou dost : it troubles me 
That I have called the blood out of thy cheeks, 
That did so well become thee : but, good boy, 
Let me not see thee more ; something is done 
That will distract me, that will make me mad, 
If I behold thee ; if thou tender'st me, 
Let me not see thee. 

Bell. I will fly as far 
As there is morning, ere I give distaste 
To that most honoured mind. But through these tears, 
Shed at my hopeless parting, I can see 
A world of treason practised upon you, 
And her, and me. Farewell for evermore ! 
If you shall hear that sorrow struck me dead, 
And after find me loyal, let there be 
A tear shed from you in my memory, 
And I shall rest at peace. 

Bellario, discovered to be a Woman^ confesses the motive for her dis- 
guise to have been love for Prince Philaster. 

My father would oft speak 
Your worth and virtue, and as I did grow 
More and more apprehensive, I did thirst 
To see the man so praised ; but yet all this 
Was but a maiden longing, to be lost 
As soon as found, till sitting in my window, 



BEAUMONT AXD FLETCHER. 

Printing my thoughts in lawn, I saw a god 

I thought (but it was you) enter our gates : 

My blood flew out, and back again, as fast 

As I had puffed it forth, and sucked it in 

Like breath ; then was I called away in haste 

To entertain you. Never was a man 

Heaved from a sheep-cot to a sceptre, raised 

So high in thoughts as I ; you left a kiss 

Upon these lips then, which I mean to keep 

From you forever ; I did hear you talk 

Far above singing. After you were gone, 

I grew acquainted with my heart, and searched 

What stirred it so. Alas ! I found it love, 

Yet far from lust, for could I have but lived 

In presence of you, I had had my end. 

For this I did delude my noble father 

With a feigned pilgrimage, and dressed myself 

In habit of a boy, — and, for I knew 

My birth no match for you, I was past hope 

Of having you. And understanding well, 

That when I made discovery of my sex, 

I could not stay with you, I made a vow, 

By all the most religious things a maid 

Could call together, never to be known, 

Whilst there was hope to hide me from men's eyes^ 

For other than I seemed ; that I might ever 

Abide with you : then sate I by the fount 

Where first you took me up. . . . 



138 GOLDEN LEAVES. 



3ot)n Jktd)n\ 

THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN. 

Hippolita and Emilia discoursing of the Friendship betiveen Peri- 
thous and Theseus, Emilia relates a parallel instance of the Love 
betiveen herself and Flavia, being Girls. 

EmiL I was acquainted 
Once with a time, when I enjoyed a playfellow ; 
You were at wars when she the grave enriched, 
Who made too proud the bed, took leave o' th' moon 
(Which then looked pale at parting) when our count 
Was each eleven. 

Hip. 'Twas Flavia. 

EmiL Yes. 
You talk of Perithous and Theseus' love ; 
Theirs has more ground, is more maturely seasoned, 
More buckled with strong judgment, and their needs 
The one of th' other may be said to water 
Their intertangled roots of love ; but I 
And she (I sigh and spoke of) were things innocent, 
Loved for we did, and like the elements, 
That know not what, nor why, yet do effect 
Rare issues by their operance ; our souls 
Did so to one another : what she liked, 
Was then of me approved ; what not condemned, 
No more arraignment ; the flower that I would pluck, 
And put between my breasts (oh, then but beginning 
To swell about the bosom), she would long 
Till she had such another, and commit it 
To the like innocent cradle, where phcenix-like 
They died in perfume : on my head no toy 



FLETCHER. 139 

But was her pattern ; her affections pretty, 
Though happily hers careless were, I followed 
For my most serious decking ; had mine ear 
Stolen some new air, or at adventure hummed on 
From musical coinage, why, it was a note 
Whereon her spirits would sojourn (rather dwell on), 
And sing it in her slumbers ; this rehearsal 
(Which every innocent wots well) comes in 
Like old Importment's bastard, has this end : 
That the true love 'tween maid and maid may be 
More than in sex dividual. . . . 

Palamon and Arcite, repining at their hard condition, in being made 
Captives for life in Athens, derive consolation from the enjoyment of 
each other' 's company in Prison. 

Pal. How do you, noble cousin? 

Arc. How do you, sir ? 

Pal. Why, strong enough to laugh, at misery, 
And bear the chance of war yet ; we are prisoners 
I fear, forever, cousin. 

Arc. I believe it, 
And to that destiny have patiently 
Laid up my hour to come. 

Pal. O cousin Arcite ! 
Where is Thebes now ? where is our noble country ? 
Where are our friends and kindreds ? Never more 
Must we behold those comforts, never see 
The hardy youths strive for the games of honour, 
Hung with. the painted favours of their ladies, 
Like tall ships under sail ; then start amongst them, 
And as an east wind leave them all behind us 
Like lazy clouds, whilst Palamon and Arcite, 



140 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Even in the wagging of a wanton leg, 
Outstripped the people's praises, won the garlands 
Ere they have time to wish them ours. Oh, neve, 
Shall we two exercise, like twins of honour, 
Our arms again, and feel our fiery horses, 
Like proud seas under us, our good swords now 
(Better the red-eyed god of war ne'er wore) 
Ravished our sides, like age, must run to rust, 
And deck the temples of those gods that hate us ; 
These hands shall never draw them out like lightning 
To blast whole armies more. 

Arc, No, Palamon, 
Those hopes are prisoners with us ; here we are, 
And here the graces of our youths must wither, 
Like a too timely spring : here age must find us, 
And (which is heaviest) Palamon, unmarried ; 
The sweet embraces of a loving wife, 
Loaden with kisses, armed with thousand Cupids, 
Shall never clasp our necks ; no issue know us ; 
No figures of ourselves shall we e'er see, 
To glad our age, and like young eagles teach them 
Boldly to gaze against bright arms, and say, 
<e Remember what your fathers were, and conquer !" 
The fair-eyed maids shall weep our banishments, 
And in their songs curse ever-blinded Fortune, 
Till she for shame see what a wrong she has done 
To youth and Nature. This is all our world : 
We shall know nothing here, but one another; 
Hear nothing, but the clock that tells our woes. 
The vine shall grow, but we shall never see it : 
Summer shall come, and with her all delights, 
But dead-cold Winter must inhabit here still. 



FLETCHER. 141 

Pal. 'Tis too true, Arcite. To our Theban hounds, 
That shook the aged forest with their echoes, 
No more now must we halloo, no more shake 
Our pointed javelins, whilst the angry swine 
Flies like a Parthian quiver from our rages, 
Struck with our well-steeled darts. All valiant uses 
(The food and nourishment of noble minds) 
In us two here shall perish : we shall die 
(Which is the curse of honour), lastly, 
Children of grief and ignorance. 

Arc. Yet, cousin, 
Even from the bottom of these miseries, 
From all that Fortune can inflict upon us, 
I see two comforts rising, two mere blessings, 
If the gods please to hold here ; a brave patience, 
And the enjoying of our griefs together. 
Whilst Palamon is with me, let me perish 
- If I think this our prison. 

Pal. Certainly 
'Tis a main goodness, cousin, that our fortunes 
Were twined together; 'tis most true, two souls 
Put in two noble bodies, let them suffer 
The gall of hazard, so they grow together, 
Will never sink; they must not; say they could, 
A willing man dies sleeping, and all's done. 

Arc. Shall we make worthy uses of this place 
That all men hate so much ? 

Pal. How, gentle cousin ? 

Arc. Let's think this prison holy sanctuary, 
To keep us from corruption of worse men ; 
We are young, and yet desire the ways of honour, 
That liberty and common conversation, 



142 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

The poison of pure spirits, might (like women) 

Woo us to wander from. What worthy blessing 

Can be, but our imaginations 

May make it ours ? And here being thus together, 

We are an endless mine to one another ; 

We are one another's wife, ever begetting 

New births of love ; we are father, friends, acquaintance ; 

We are, in one another, families; 

I am your heir, and you are mine. This place 

Is our inheritance ; no hard oppressor 

Dare take this from us ; here with a little patience 

We shall live long, and loving ; no surfeits seek us ; 

The hand of war hurts none here, nor the seas 

Swallow their youth. Were we at liberty, 

A wife might part us lawfully, or business ; 

Quarrels consume us ; envy of ill men 

Crave our acquaintance ; I might sicken, cousin, 

Where you should never know it, and so perish 

Without your noble hand to close mine eyes, 

Or prayers to the gods : a thousand chances, 

Were we from hence, would sever us. 

PaL You have made me 
(I thank you, Cousin Arcite) almost wanton 
With my captivity : what a misery 
It is to live abroad, 2nd everywhere ! 
'Tis like a beast, methinks ! I find the court here, 
I'm sure, a more content ; and all those pleasures, 
That woo the wills of men to vanity, 
I see through now ; and am sufficient 
To tell the world, 'tis but a gaudy shadow, 
That old Time, as he passes by, takes with him. 
What had we been old in the court of Creon, 



MASSINGER. 143 

Where sin is justice, lust and ignorance 
The virtues of the great ones ? Cousin Arcite, 
Had not the loving gods found this place for us, 
We had died as they do, ill old men, unwept, 
And had their epitaphs, the people's curses 



$lt)Uip UlasBinger. 

THE CITY MADAM! A COMEDY. 

Luke, from a state of Indigence and Dependence, is suddenly raised into 
immense Affluence by a Deed of Gift of the Estates of his Brother, 
Sir John Frugal, a Merchant retired from the World. He enters, 
from taking a Survey of his r.ezv Riches. 

Luke. 'Twas no fantastic object, but a truth, 
A real truth, — no dream. I did not slumber ; 
And could wake ever with a brooding eye 
To gaze upon't ! it did endure the touch — 
I saw and felt it. Yet what I beheld 
And handled oft, did so transcend belief 
(My wonder and astonishment passed o'er), 
I faintly could give credit to my senses. 
Thou dumb magician, [To the Key. 

That without a charm 
Didst make my entrance easy to possess 
What wise men wish and toil for. Hermes' Moly ; 
Sybilla's golden bough ; the great elixir 
Imagined only by the alchemist; 

Compared with thee, are shadows, thou the substance 
And guardian of felicity. No marvel, 



144 O OLDEN LEA VES. 

My brother made thy place of rest his bosom, 
Thou being the keeper of his heart, a mistress 
To be hugged ever. In by-corners of 
This sacred room, silver, in bags heaped up, 
Like billets sawed and ready for the fire, 
Unworthy to hold fellowship with bright gold, 
That flowed about the room, concealed itself. 
There needs no artificial light ; the splendour 
Makes a perpetual day there ; nigh tand darkness 
By that still-burning lamp forever banished. 
But when, guided by that, my eyes had made 
Discovery of the caskets, and they opened, 
Each sparkling diamond from itself shot forth 
A pyramid of flames, and in the roof 
Fixed it a glorious star, and made the place 
Heaven's abstract, or epitome : rubies, sapphires, 
And robes of orient pearl, — these seen, I could not 
But look on gold with contempt. And yet I found, 
What weak credulity could have no faith in, 
A treasure far exceeding these. Here lay 
A manor bound fast in a skin of parchment ; 
The wax continuing hard, the acres melting. 
Here a sure deed of gift for a market town, 
If not redeemed this day ; which is not in 
The unthrift's power. There being scarce one shire 
In Wales or England, where my moneys are not 
Lent out at usury, the certain hook 
To draw in more. 

The Extravagance of the City Madams. 
Luke, having come into the possession of his Brother Sir John Frugal's 
Estates. Lady, Wife to Sir John Frugal, and two Daughters, in 
homely Attire. 



MASSINGER. 145 

Luke, Save you, sister ; 
I now dare style you so. You were before 
Too glorious to be looked on : now you appear 
Like a city matron, and my pretty nieces 
Such things 

As they were born and bred there. Why should you ape 
The fashions of court ladies, whose high titles 
And pedigrees of long descent give warrant 
For their superfluous bravery ? 'Twas monstrous ! 
Till now you ne'er looked lovely. 

Lady, Is this spoken 
In scorn ? 

Luke. Fie, no ! with judgment, I make good 
My promise, and now show you like yourselves, 
In your own natural shapes. 

Lady. We acknowledge 
We have deserved ill from you,* yet despair not ; 
Though we're at your disposure, you'll maintain us 
Like your brother's wife and daughters. 

Luke. 'Tis my purpose. 

Lady. And not make us ridiculous. 

Luke. Admired, rather, 
As fair examples for our proud city dames 
And their proud brood to imitate. Hear 
Gently, and in gentle phrase I'll reprehend 
Your late disguised deformity. 
Your father was 

An honest country farmer, Goodman Humble, 
By his neighbours ne'er called master. Did your pride 

* In his dependent state they had treated him very cruelly. They 
are now dependent on him. 



146 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Descend from him ? — But let that pass. Your fortune, 

Or rather your husband's industry, advanced you 

To the rank of merchant's wife. He made a knight, 

And your sweet mistress-ship ladyfied, you wore 

Satin on solemn days, a chain of gold, 

A velvet hood, rich borders, and sometimes 

A dainty minever cap, a silver pin 

Headed with a pearl worth threepence ; and thus far 

You were privileged, and no man envied it : 

It being for the city's honour that 

There should be distinction between 

The wife of a patrician and a plebeian. . . . . 

But when the height 

And dignity of London's blessings grew 

Contemptible, and the name lady mayoress 

Became a by-word, and you scorned the means 

By which you were raised (my brother's fond indulgence 

Giving the reins to't), and no object pleased you 

But the glittering pomp and bravery of the court; 

What a strange, nay, monstrous metamorphosis followed ! 

No English workmen then could please your fancy ; 

The French and Tuscan dress, your whole discourse ; 

This bawd to prodigality entertained, 

To buzz into your ears what shape this countess 

Appeared in, the last masque ; and how it drew 

The young lord's eyes upon her : and this usher 

Succeeded in the eldest 'prentice's place, 

To walk before you. Then, as I said 

(The reverend hood cast off), your borrowed hair, 

Powdered and curled, was by your dresser's art 

Formed like a coronet, hanged with diamonds, 

And the richest orient pearl : your carcanets, 



MASSINGEK. 147 

That did adorn your neck, of equal value ; 

Your Hungerland bands, and Spanish Quellio ruffs : 

Great lords and ladies feasted, to survey 

Embroidered petticoats ; and sickness feigned, 

That your nightrails of forty pounds a-piece 

Might be seen with envy of the visitants : 

Rich pantables in ostentation shown, 

And roses worth a family. You were served 

In plate ; 

Stirred not a foot without a coach ; and going 

To church, not for devotion, but to show 

Your pomp, you were tickled when the beggars cried 

Heaven save your honour. This idolatry 

Paid to a painted room. And, when you lay 

In childbed, at the christening of this minx, 

I well remember it, as you had been 

An absolute princess (since they have no more), 

Three several chambers hung : the first with arras, 

And that for waiters ; the second, crimson satin, 

For the meaner sort of guests ; the third of scarlet 

Of the rich Tyrian dye : a canopy 

To cover the brat's cradle ; you in state, 

Like Pompey's Julia. 

Lady. No more, I pray you. 

Luke. Of this be sure you shall not. I'll cut off 
Whatever is exorbitant in you, 
Or in your daughters ; and reduce you to 
Your natural forms and habits : not in revenge 
Of your base usage of me ; but to fright 
Others by your example. 



H 8 GOLDEN LEAVES. 



A NEW WAY TO PAY OLD DEBTS. 

Sir Giles Overreach (a cruel Extortioner) treats about marrying his 
Daughter with Lord Lovell. 

Lovell, Overreach. 

Over. To my wish we are private. 
I come not to make offer with my daughter 
A certain portion ; that were poor and trivial : 
In one word I pronounce all that is mine, 
In lands or leases, ready coin or goods, 
With her, my lord, comes to you ; nor shall you have 
One motive to induce you to believe 
I live too long, since every year I'll add 
Something unto the heap, which shall be yours too. 

Lov. You are a right kind father. 

Over. You shall have reason 
To think me such. How do you like this seat ? 
It is well wooded and well watered, the acres 
Fertile and rich : would it not serve for change, 
To entertain your friends in a summer's progress ? 
What thinks my noble lord ? 

Lov. 'Tis a wholesome air, 
And well built, and she,* that is mistress of it, 
Worthy the large revenues. 

Over. She the mistress ? 
It may be so for a time : but let my lord 
Say only that he but like it, and would have it ; 
I say, ere long 'tis his. 

Lov. Impossible. 

* The Lady Allworth. 



MA S SINGER. 149 

Over. You do conclude too fast ; not knowing me, 
Nor the engines that I work by. 'Tis not alone 
The Lady Allworth's lands : but point out any man's 
In all the shire, and say they lie convenient 
And useful for your lordship ; and once more 
I say aloud, they are yours. 

Lov. I dare not own 
What's by unjust and cruel means extorted : 
My fame and credit are more dear to me, 
Than so to expose 'em to be censured by 
The public voice. 

Over. You run, my lord, no hazard : 
Your reputation shall stand as fair 
In all good men's opinions as now : 
Nor can my actions, though condemned for ill, 
Cast any foul aspersion upon yours. 
For though I do contemn report myself, 
As a mere sound ; I still will be so tender 
Of what concerns you in all points of honour, 
That the immaculate whiteness of your fame, 
Nor your unquestioned integrity, 
Shall e'er be sullied with one taint or spot 
That may take from your innocence and candor. 
As my ambition is to have my daughter 
Right honourable ; which my lord can make her : 
And might I live to dance upon my knee 
A young Lord Lovell, born by her unto you, 
I write nil ultra to my proudest hopes. 
As for possessions and annual rents, 
Equivalent to maintain you in the port 
Your noble birth and present state require, 
I do remove that burden from your shoulders, 



150 G OLDEN LEAVES. 

And take it on mine own : for though I ruin 

The country to supply your riotous waste, 

The scourge of prodigals (want) shall never find you. 

Lov. Are you not frighted with the imprecations 
And curses of whole families, made wretched 
By your sinister practices ? 
Over. Yes, as rocks are, 
When foamy billows split themselves against 
Their flinty ribs ; or as the moon is moved 
When wolves, with hunger pined, howl at her brightness. 
I am of a solid temper, and, like these, 
Steer on a constant course : with mine own sword, 
If called into the field, I can make that right, 
Which fearful enemies murmured at as wrong. 
Now, for those other piddling complaints, 
Breathed out in bitterness ; as, when they call me 
Extortioner, tyrant, cormorant, or intruder 
On my poor neighbour's right, or grand encloser 
Of what was common to my private use ; 
Nay, when my ears are pierced with widows' cries, 
And undone orphans wash with tears my threshold : 
I only think what 'tis to have my daughter 
Right honourable ; and 'tis a powerful charm, 
Makes me insensible of remorse or pity, 
Or the least sting of conscience. 

Lov. I admire 
The toughness of your nature. 

Over. 'Tis for you, 
My lord, and for my daughter, I am marble. 



If AS SINGER. 151 



THE FATAL DOWRY: A TRAGEDY. 

The Marshal of Burgundy dies in Prison at Dijon, for Debts con- 
tracted by him for the service of the State in the Wars. His dead 
Body is arrested and denied Burial by his Creditors. His Son, young 
Charalois, gives up himself to Prison, to redeem his Father's Body, 
that it may have honourable Burial.. He has leave, from his Prison- 
doors, to view the Ceremony of the Funeral, but to go no farther. 

Enter three Gentlemen, Pontalier, Malotin, and Beau- 
mont, as Spectators of the Funeral. 

MaL 'Tis strange ! 

Beaum. Methinks so. 

Pont. In a man but young, 
Yet old in judgment; theoric and practic 
In all humanity ; and, to increase the wonder, 
Religious, yet a soldier, — that he should 
Yield his free-living youth a captive, for * 
The freedom of his aged father's corpse ; 
And rather choose to want life's necessaries, 
Liberty, hope of fortune, than it should 
In death be kept from Christian ceremony. 

Mai. Come, 'tis a golden precedent in a son, 
To let strong Nature have the better hand, 
In such a case, of all affected reason. 
What years sit on this Charalois ? 

Beaum. Twenty-eight. 
For since the clock did strike him seventeen old, 
Under his father's wing this son hath fought, 
Served, and commanded, and so aptly both, 
That sometimes he appeared his father's father, 
And never less than his son ; the old man's virtues 



1J2 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

So recent in him, as the world may swear 
Naught but a fair tree could such fair fruit bear. 

Mai. This morning is the funeral ? 

Pont. Certainly, 
And from this prison ; — 'twas the son's request. 

[Charalois appears at the door of the prison. 
That his dear father might interment have, 
See, the young son entered a lively grave. 

Beaum. They come. Observe their order 

The funeral Procession enters. Captain and Soldiers, Mourners. Ro- 
mont, Friend to the Deceased. Three Creditors are among the Spec- 
tators. Charalois speaks. 

Char, How like a silent stream, shaded with night, 
And gliding softly with our windy sighs, 
Moves the whole frame of this solemnity ! 
Tears, sighs, and blacks, filling the simile ; 
Whilst I, the only murmur in this grove 
Of death, thus hollowly break forth ! — Vouchsafe 
To stay awhile. Rest, rest in peace, dear earth ! 
Thou that brought'st rest to their unthankful lives, 
Whose cruelty denied thee rest in death ! 
Here stands thy poor executor, thy son, 
That makes his life prisoner to bail thy death ; 
Who gladlier puts on this captivity, 
Than virgins, long in love, their wedding weeds. 
Of ail that ever thou hast done good to, 
These only have good memories ; for they 
Remember best, forget not gratitude. 
I thank you for this last and friendly love ; 
And though this country, like a viperous mother, 
Not only hath eat up ungratefully 



MASSINGER. 153 

All means of thee, her son, but last thyself, 

Leaving thy heir so bare and indigent, 

He cannot raise thee a poor monument, 

Such as a flatterer or an usurer hath ; 

Thy worth in every honest breast builds one, 

Making their friendly hearts thy funeral stone. 

Pont. Sir!— 

Char, Peace ! O peace ! This scene is wholly mine. — 
What ! weep you, soldiers ? — blanch not ; Romont weeps. — 
Ha ! let me see ! my miracle is eased ; 
The jailors and the creditors do weep ; 
E'en they that make us weep, do weep themselves. 
Be these thy body's balm : these, and thy virtue, 
Keep thy fame ever odoriferous, 
Whilst the great, proud, rich, undeserving man 
Alive stinks in his vices, and, being vanished, 
The golden calf that was an idol, decked 
With marble pillars, jet and porphyry, 
Shall quickly both in bone and name consume, 
Though wrapped in lead, spice, cerecloth, and perfume. 

Creditor. Sir ! — 

Char. What ! away for shame ! — you, profane rogues, 
Must not be mingled with these holy relics : 
This is a sacrifice — our shower shall crown 
His sepulchre with olive, myrrh, and bays, 
The plants of peace, of sorrow, victory : 
Your tears would spring but weeds. 

Rom. Look, look, you slaves ! your thankless cruelty, 
And savage manners of unkind Dijon, 
Exhaust these floods, and not his father's death. 

Priest. On! 

Char. One moment more, 



154 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

But to bestow a few poor legacies, 

All I have left in my dead father's right, 

And I have done. — Captain, wear thou these spurs, 

That yet ne'er made his horse run from a foe. — 

Lieutenant, thou this scarf; and may it tie 

Thy valour and thy honesty together, 

For so it did in him. — Ensign, this cuirass, 

Your general's necklace once. — You, gentle bearers, 

Divide this purse of gold : this other strew 

Among the poor. 'Tis all I have. — Romont, 

Wear thou this medal of himself, that like 

A hearty oak grew'st close to this tall pine, 

E'en in the wildest wilderness of war, 

Whereon foes broke their swords, and tired themselves : 

Wounded and hacked ye were, but never felled. — 

For me, my portion provide in heaven : 

My root is earthed, and I, a desolate branch, 

Left scattered in the highway of the world, 

Trod under foot, that might have been a column 

Mainly supporting our demolished house. 

This* would I wear as my inheritance, — 

And what hope can arise to me from it, 

When I and it are here both prisoners ? 

Only may this, if ever we be free, 

Keep or redeem me from all infamy ! 

Jailer. You must no farther. — 
The prison limits you, and the creditors 
Exact the strictness 

* His father's sword. 



SHIRLEY. 155 

3amt$ Sl)ivlcg. 

THE LADY OF PLEASURE: A COMEDY. 

Sir Thomas Bornewell expostulates -with his Lady on her Extrava- 
gance and Love of Pleasure. 

Bornewell ; Aretina, his Lady. 

Are. I am angry with myself; 
To be so miserably restrained in things, 
Wherein it doth concern your love and honour 
To see me satisfied. 

Bar. In what, Aretina, 
Dost thou accuse me ? have I not obeyed 
All thy desires, against mine own opinion; 
Quitted the country, and removed the hope 
Of our return, by sale of that fair lordship 
We lived in : changed a calm and retired life 
For this wild town, composed of noise and, charge ? 

Are. What charge, more than is necessary 
For a lady of my birth and education ? 

Bor. I am not ignorant how much nobility 
Flows in your blood ; your kinsmen great and powerful 
In the state; but with this lose not your memory 
Of being my wife : I shall be studious, 
Madam, to give the dignity of your birth 
All the best ornaments which become my fortune ; 
But would not flatter it, to ruin both, 
And be the fable of the town, to teach 
Other men wit by loss of mine, employed 
To serve your vast expenses. 

Are. Am I then 
Brought in the balance ? so, sir. 



I 5 6 G L DEN L EA YE 8. 

Bor. Though you weigh 
Me in a partial scale, my heart is honest : 
And must take liberty to think, you have 
Obeyed no modest counsel to effect, 
Nay, study ways of pride and costly ceremony ; 
Your change of gaudy furniture, and pictures, 
Of this Italian master, and that Dutchman's ; 
Your mighty looking-glasses, like artillery 
Brought home on engines; the superfluous plate 
Antick and novel ; vanities of tires, 
Fourscore pound suppers for my lord your kinsman, 
Banquets for t'other lady, aunt, and cousins ; 
And perfumes, that exceed all ; train of servants, 
To stifle us at home, and show abroad 
More motley than the French, or the Venetian, 
About your coach, whose rude postilion 
Must pester every narrow lane, till passengers 
And tradesmen curse your choking up their stalls, 
And common cries pursue your ladyship 
For hindering of their market. 

Are. Have you done, sir ? 

Bor. I could accuse the gayety of your wardrobe, 
And prodigal embroideries, under which, 
Rich satins, plushes, cloth of silver, dare 
Not show their own complexions; your jewels, 
Able to burn out the spectators' eyes, 
And show like bonfires on you by the tapers : 
Something might here be spared, with safety of 
Your birth and honor, since the truest wealth 
Shines from the soul, and draws up just admirers. 
I could urge something more. 

Are. Pray, do. I like 



SHIRLEY. 1.57 

Your homily of thrift. 

Bor. I could wish, madam, 
You would not game so much. 

Are. A gamester, too ! 

Bor. But are not come to that repentance yet, 
Should teach you skill enough to raise your profit ; 
You look not through the subtilty of cards, 
And mysteries of dice, nor can you save 
Charge with the box, buy petticoats and pearls, 
And keep your family by the precious income ; 
Nor do I wish you should : my poorest servant 
Shall not upbraid my tables, nor his hire 
Purchased beneath my honour : you make play 
Not a pastime but a tyranny, and vex 
Yourself and my estate by't. 

Are. Good, proceed. 

Bor. Another game you have, which consumes more 
Your fame than purse, your revels in the night, 
Your meetings, called the ball, to which appear, 
As to the court of pleasure, all your gallants 
And ladies, thither bound by a subpoena 
Of Venus and small Cupid's high displeasure : 
'Tis but the Family of Love, translated 
Into more costly sin ; there was a play on't ; 
And had the poet not been bribed to a modest 
Expression of your antic gambols in't, 
Some darks had been discovered ; and the deeds too ; 
In time he may repent, and make some blush, 
To see the second part danced on the stage. 
?vly thoughts acquit you for dishonouring me 
By any foul act ; but the virtuous know, 
*Tis not enough to clear ourselves, but the 
Suspicions of our shame. 



158 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Are. Have you concluded 
Your lecture ? 

Bor. I have done ; and howsoever 
My language may appear to you, it carries 
No other than my fair and just intent 
To your delights, without curb to their modest 
And noble freedom. 

Are. I'll not be so tedious 
In my reply, but, without art or elegance, 
Assure you I keep still my first opinion ; 
And though you veil your avaricious meaning 
With handsome names of modesty and thrift, 
I find you would intrench and wound the liberty 
I was born with. Were my desires unprivileged 
By example ; while my judgment thought 'em fit, 
You ought not to oppose : but when the practice 
And tract of every honourable lady 
Authorize me, I take it great injustice 
To have my pleasures circumscribed and taught me. 



ALL FOR LOVE. 

Marc Antony, after the Battle of Actium, is 'visited by Ventidius, 
his General, while suffering under the mortifcation of his Defeat. 

Marc Antony, Ventidius. 

Ant. They tell me 'tis my birthday, and I'll keep it 
With double pomp of sadness. 
'Tis what the day deserves, which gave me breath. 



DRY DEN. 159 

Why was I raised the meteor of the world, 
Hung in the skies, and blazing as I travelled, 
Till all my fires were spent, and then cast downward 
To be trod out by Cassar ? 

Vent. [Aside.] On my soul 
'Tis mournful, wondrous mournful ! 

Ant. Count thy gains, 
Now, Antony : wouldst thou be born for this? 
Glutton of fortune, thy devouring youth 
Has starved thy wanting age. 

Vent. [Aside.] How sorrow shakes him ! 
So now the tempest tears him by th' roots, 
And on the ground extends the noble ruin. 

Ant. [Having thrown himself down.] Lie there, thou 
shadow of an emperor ! 
The place thou pressest on thy mother earth 
Is all thy empire now : now it contains thee ; 
Some few days hence, and then 'twill be too large, 

When thou'rt contracted in thy narrow urn, 

Shrunk to a few cold ashes ; then Octavia 

(For Cleopatra will not live to see it), 

Octavia then will have thee all her own, 

And bear thee in her widowed hand to Caesar. 

Caesar will weep, the crocodile will weep, 

To see his rival of the universe 

Lie still and peaceful there. I'll think no more on't. 

Give me some music ; look that it be sad ; 

I'll soothe my melancholy, till I swell, 

And burst myself with sighing. 

'Tis somewhat to my humour. Stay, I fancy 

I'm now turned wild, a commoner of nature ; 

Of all forsaken, and forsaking all ; 



100 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Live in a shady forest's sylvan scene ; 

Stretched at my length beneath some blasted oak, 

I lean my head upon the mossy bark, 

And look just of a piece, as I grew from it : 

My uncombed locks, matted like mistletoe, 

Hang o'er my hoary face ; a murm'ring brook 

Runs at my foot 

Vent. Methinks I fancy 
Myself there too. 

Ant. The herd come jumping by me, 
And, fearless, quench their thirst, while I look on, 
And take me for their fellow-citizen. 
More of this image— more ; it lulls my thoughts. 

Vent. I must disturb him. I can hold no longer. 

[Stands before kit 

Ant. [Starting upj\ Art thou Ventidius ? 

Vent. Are you Antony ? 
I'm liker what I was, than you to him 
I left you last. 

Ant. I'm angry. 

Vent. So am I. 

Ant. I would be private. Leave me. 

Vent. Sir, I love you, 
And therefore will not leave you. 

Ant. Will not leave me ! 
Where have you learned that answer ? Who am I ? 

Vent. My emperor ; the man I love next Heaven. 
If I said more, I think 'twere scarce a sin : 
You're all that's good and godlike. 

Ant. All that's wretched. 
You will not le'ave me, then ? 

Vent. 'Twas too presuming 



BR YDEN. 161 

To say I would not : but I dare not leave you ; 
And 'tis unkind in you to chide me hence 
So soon, when I so far have come to see you. 

Ant. Now thou hast seen me, art thou satisfied ? 
For, if a friend, thou hast beheld enough ; 
And, if a foe, too much. 

Vent. Look, emperor, this is no common dew; 
I have not wept these forty years ; but now 
My mother comes afresh unto my eyes ; 
I cannot help her softness. 

Ant. By Heaven, he weeps ! — poor, good old man, he 
weeps ! 
The big round drops course one another down 
The furrows of his cheeks. Stop 'em, Ventidius, 
Or I shall blush to death ; they set my shame, 
That caused 'em, full before me. 

Vent I'll do my best. 

Ant. Sure there's contagion in the tears of friends ; 
See, I have caught it too. Believe me, 'tis not 
For my own griefs, but thine Nay, father 

Vent. Emperor ! 

Ant. Emperor ? Why, that's the style of victory ! 
The conqu'ring soldier, and with unfelt wounds, 
Salutes his general so : but never more 
Shall that sound reach my ears. 

Vent. I warrant you. 

Ant. Actium, Actium ! Oh 

Vent. It sits too near you. 

Ant. Here, here it lies ; a lump of lead by day ; 
And in my short, distracted, nightly slumbers, 
The hag that rides my dreams 

Vent. Out with it ! give it vent. 



162 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Ant. Urge not my shame — 
I lost a battle ! 

Vent. So has Julius done. 

Ant. Thou favour'st me, and speak'st not half thou 
think'st ; 
For Julius fought it out, and lost it fairly ; 
But Antony 

Vent. Nay, stop not. 

Ant. Antony 
(Well, thou wilt have it), like a coward, fled, — 
Fled while his soldiers fought ! — fled first, Ventidius. 
Thou long'st to curse me, and I give thee leave. 
I know thou cam'st prepared to rail. 

Vent. I did. 

Ant. I'll help thee — I have been a man, Ventidius. 

Vent. Yes, and a brave one ; but 

Ant. I know thy meaning. 
But I have lost my reason, have disgraced 
The name of soldier with inglorious ease ; 
In the full vintage of my flowing honours 
Sat still, and saw it pressed by other hands. 
Fortune came smiling to my youth, and wooed it. 
And purple greatness met my ripened years. 
When first I came to empire, I was borne 
On tides of people, crowding to my triumphs. 
The wish of nations, and the willing world, 
Received me as its pledge of future peace. 
I was so great, so happy, so beloved, 
Fate could not ruin me ; till I took pains, 
And worked against my fortune, chid her from me, 
And turned her loose : yet still she came again. 
My careless days and my luxurious nights 



DRY DEN. 163 

At length have wearied her, and now she's gone ; 
Gone, gone, divorced forever. Help me, soldier, 
To curse this madman, this industrious fool, 
Who laboured to be wretched. Pr'ythee curse me. 

Vent. No. 

Ant Why? 

Vent. You are too sensible already 
Of what you've done ; too conscious of your failings. 
And like a scorpion, whipped by others first 
To fury, sting yourself in mad revenge. 
I would bring balm, and pour it in your wounds, 
Cure your distempered mind, and heal your fortunes. 

Ant. I know thou wouldst. 

Vent. I will. 

Ant. Ha, ha, ha, ha ! 

Vent. You laugh. 

Ant I do, to see officious love 
Give cordials to the dead. 

Vent. You would be lost, then ? 

Ant. I am. 

Vent. I say you are not. Try your fortune. 

Ant. I have to the utmost. Dost thou think me des- 
perate 
Without just cause ? No ; when I found all lost 
Beyond repair, I hid me from the world, 
And learned to scorn it here ; which now I do 
So heartily, I think it is not worth 
The cost of keeping. 

Vent. Cassar thinks not so : 
He'll thank you for the gift he could not take. 
You would be killed like Tully, would you ? Do 
Hold out your throat to Cassar, and die tamely. 



164 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Ant. No, I can kill myself; and so resolve. 

Vent. I can die with you, too, when time shall serve; 
But fortune calls upon us now to live, 
To fight, to conquer. 

Ant. Sure thou dream'st, Ventidius ? 

Vent. No; 'tis you dream; you sleep away your hours 
In desperate sloth, miscalled philosophy. 
Up, up, for honour's sake ; twelve legions wait you, 
And long to call you chief. By painful journeys 
I led 'em, patient both of heat and hunger, 
Down from the Parthian marches to the Nile. 
'Twill do you good to see their sun-burnt faces, 
Their scarred cheeks, and chopt hands; there's virtue in 

'em : 
They'll sell those mangled limbs at dearer rates 
Than yon trim bands can buy. 

Ant. Where left you them ? 

Vent. I said in Lower Syria. 

Ant. Bring 'em hither; 
There may be life in these. 

Vent. They will not come. 

Ant. Why didst thou mock my hopes with promised aids, 
To double my despair? They're mutinous. 

Vent. Most firm and loyal. 

Ant. Yet they will not march 
To succour me. Oh, trifler ! 

Vent. They petition 
You would make haste to head 'em. 

Ant. I'm besieged. 

Vent. There's but one way shut up. How came I 
hither ? 

Ant. I will not stir. 



DRYDEN. 165 

Vent. They would perhaps desire 
A better reason. 

Ant. I have never used 
My soldiers to demand a reason of 
My actions. Why did they refuse to march ? 

Vent. They said they would not fight for Cleopatra. 

Ant. What was't they said ? 

Vent. They said they would not fight for Cleopatra. 
Why should they fight, indeed, to make her conquer, 
And make you more a slave ? To gain you kingdoms 
Which, for a kiss, at your next midnight feast 
You'll sell to her ? Then she new names her jewels, 
And calls this diamond such or such a tax. 
Each pendent in her ear shall be a province. 

Ant. Ventidius, I allow your tongue free license 
On all my other faults ; but, on your life, 
No word of Cleopatra ; she deserves 
More worlds than I can lose. 

Vent. Behold, you powers, 
To whom you have intrusted human-kind ; 
See Europe, Afric, Asia put in balance, 
And all weighed down by one light worthless woman ! 
I think the gods are Antonies, and give, 
Like prodigals, this nether world away 
To none but wasteful hands. 

Ant. You grow presumptuous. 

Vent. I take the privilege of plain love to speak. 

Ant. Plain love ! plain arrogance, plain insolence ! 
Thy men are cowards, thou an envious traitor ; 
Who, under seeming honesty, hast vented 
The burden of thy rank o'erflowing gall. 
Oh, that thou wert my equal ; great in arms 



166 G OLDEN LEAVES. 

As the first Caesar was, that I might kill thee 
Without stain to my honour ! 

Vent. You may kill me. 
You have done more already — called me traitor. 

Ant. Art thou not one ? 

Vent. For showing you yourself 
Which none else durst have done. But had I been 
That name which I disdain to speak again, 
I needed not have sought your abject fortunes, 
Come to partake your fate, to die with you. 
What hindered me to 've led my conquering eagles 
To fill Octavius' bands ? I could have been 
A traitor then, a glorious, happy traitor, 
And not have been so called. 

Ant. Forgive me, soldier; 
I've been too passionate. 

Vent. You thought me false ; 
Thought my old age betrayed you. Kill me, sir ; 
Pray, kill me ; yet you need not ; your unkindness 
Has left your sword no work. 

Ant. I did not think so; 
I said it in my rage ; pr'ythee forgive me. 
Why didst thou tempt my anger, by discovery 
Of what I would not hear ? 

Vent. No prince but you 
Could merit that sincerity I used ; 
Nor durst another man have ventured it ; 
But you, ere love misled your wandering eyes, 
Were sure the chief and best of human race, 
Framed in the very pride and boast of nature. 

Ant. But Cleopatra 

Go on ; for I can bear it now. 



DRYDEN. 167 

Vent. No more. 

Ant. Thou dar'st not trust my passion ; but thou mayst ; 
Thou only lov'st, the rest have flattered me. 

Vent. Heaven's blessing on your heart for that kind word. 
May I believe you love me ? Speak again. 

Ant. Indeed I do. Speak this, and this, and this. 
Thy praises were unjust ; but I'll deserve 'em, 
And yet mend all. Do with me what thou wilt ; 
Lead me to victory ; thou know'st the way. 

Vent. And will you leave this 

Ant. Pr'ythee, do not curse her, 
And I will leave her ; though, Heaven knows, I love 
Beyond life, conquest, empire, all, but honour ; 
But I will leave her. 

Vent. That's my royal master. 
And shall we fight ? 

Ant. I warrant thee, old soldier ; 
Thou shalt behold me once again in iron, 
And, at the head of our old troops, that beat 
The Parthians, cry aloud, <f Come, follow me." 

Vent. Oh, now I hear my emperor ! In that word 
Octavius fell. Gods, let me see that day, 
And, if I have ten years behind, take all ; 
I'll thank you for th' exchange. 

Ant. Oh, Cleopatra ! 

Vent. Again ! 

Ant. I've done. In that last sigh she went ; 
Caesar shall know what 'tis to force a lover 
From all he holds most dear. 

Vent. Methinks you breathe 
Another soul ; your looks are more divine ; 
You speak a hero, and you move a god. 



168 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Ant. Oh, thou hast fired me ; my soul's up in arms, 
And mans each part about me. Once again 
That noble eagerness of fight has seized me ; 
That eagerness with which I darted upward 
To Cassius' camp. In vain the steepy hill 
Opposed my way ; in vain a war of spears 
Sung round my head, and planted all my shield ; 
I won the trenches, while my foremost men 
Lagged on the plain below. 

Vent. Ye gods, ye gods, 
For such another honour ! 

Ant. Come on, my soldier; 
Our hearts and arms are still the same. I long 
Once more to meet our foes ; that thou and I, 
Like Time and Death, marching before our troops, 
May taste fate to 'em, mow 'em on a passage, 
And, entering where the utmost squadrons yield, 
Begin the noble harvest of the field. 



DON SEBASTIAN. 

Don Sebastian, King of Portugal, is defeated in Battle, and taken 
Prisoner by the Moors. He is saved from Death by Dorax, a noble 
Portuguese, then a Renegade in the Court of the Emperor of Barbary, 
but formerly Don Alonzo of Alea%ar. The Train being dismissed, 
Dorax takes off his turban, and assumes his Portuguese dress and 
manner. 

Don Sebastian, Dorax. 

Dor. Now, do you know me ? 
Seb. Thou shouldst be Alonzo. 



DRYDEN. 169 

Dor. So you should be Sebastian ; 
But when Sebastian ceased to be himself, 
I ceased to be Alonzo. 

Seb. As in a dream 
I see thee here, and scarce believe mine eyes. 

Dor. Is it so strange to find me where my wrongs, 
And your inhuman tyranny, have sent me ? 
Think not you dream : or, if you did, my injuries 
Shall call so loud, that lethargy should wake, 
And death should give you back to answer me. 
A thousand nights have brushed their balmy wings 
Over these eyes ; but ever when they closed, 
Your tyrant image forced them ope again, 
And dried the dews they brought. 
The long-expected hour is come at length, 
By manly vengeance to redeem my fame : 
And that once cleared, eternal sleep is welcome. 

Seb. I have not yet forgot I am a king, 
Whose royal office is redress of wrongs : 
If I have wronged thee, charge me face to face ; 
I have not yet forgot I am a soldier. 

Dor. 'Tis the first justice thou hast ever done me ; 
Then, though I loathe this woman's war of tongues, 
Yet shall my cause of vengeance first be clear ; 
And Honour, be thou judge. 

Seb. Honour befriend us both. 
Beware, I warn thee yet, to tell thy griefs 
In terms becoming majesty to hear : 
I warn thee thus, because I know thy temper 
Is insolent and haughty to superiors : 
How often hast thou braved my peaceful court, 
Filled it with noisy brawls and windy boasts ; 



170 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

And with past service, nauseously repeated, 
Reproached even me, thy prince ? 

Dor. And well I might, when you forgot reward, 
The part of heaven in kings ; for punishment 
Is hangman's work, and drudgery for devils. 
I must and will reproach t*hee with my service, 
Tyrant ! It irks me so to call my prince ; 
But just resentment and hard usage coined 
Th' unwilling word, and, grating as it is, 
Take it, for 'tis thy due. 

Seb. How, tyrant ? 

Dor. Tyrant ! 

Seb. Traitor ! that name thou canst not echo back : 
That robe of infamy, that circumcision, 
111 hid beneath that robe, proclaim thee traitor; 
And if a name 
More foul than traitor be, 'tis renegade. 

Dor. If I'm a traitor, think, and blush, thou tyrant, 
Whose injuries betrayed me into treason, 
EfFaced my loyalty, unhinged my faith, 
And hurried me from hopes of heaven to hell ; 
AH these, and all my yet unfinished crimes, 
When I shall rise to plead before the saints, 
I charge on thee, to make thy damning sure. 

Seb. Thy old presumptuous arrogance again, 
That bred my first dislike, and then my loathing ; 
Once more be warned, and know me for thy king. 

Dor. Too well I know thee, but for king no more : 
This is not Lisbon, nor the circle this, 
Where, like a statue, thou hast stood besieged 
By sycophants and fools, the growth of courts ; 
Where thy gulled eyes, in all the gaudy round, 



DRYDEN. 171 

Met nothing but a lie in every face ; 

And the gross flattery of a gaping crowd, 

Envious who first should catch, and first applaud 

The stuff or royal nonsense : when I spoke, 

My honest, homely words were carped and censured, 

For want of courtly style : related actions, 

Though modestly reported, passed for boasts : 

Secure of merit, if I asked reward, 

Thy hungry minions thought their right3 invaded, 

And the bread snatched from pimps and parasites. 

Henriquez answered, with a ready lie, 

To save his king's, the boon was begged before. 

Seb. What say'st thou of Henriquez ? Now, by heaven, 
Thou mov'st me more by barely naming him, 
Than all thy foul, unmannered, scurril taunts. 

Dor. And therefore 'twas to gall thee that I named him ; 
That thing, that nothing, but a cringe and smile ; 
That woman, but more daubed ; or if a man, 
Corrupted to a woman ; thy man-mistress. 

Seb. All false as hell or thou. 

Dor. Yes ; full as false 
As that I served thee fifteen hard campaigns, 
And pitched thy standard in these foreign fields : 
By me thy greatness grew ; thy years grew with it 
But thy ingratitude outgrew them both. 

Seb. I see to what thou tend'st ; but tell me first, 
If those great acts were done alone for me : 
If love produced not some, and pride the rest ? 

Dor. Why, love does all that's nob^e here below : 
But all th' advantage of that love was thine : 
For, coming fraughted back, in either hand 
With palm and olive, victory and peace, 



172 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

I was indeed prepared to ask my own 
(For Violante's vows were mine before) : 
Thy malice had prevention, ere I spoke ; 
And asked me Violante for Henriquez. 

Seb. I meant thee a reward of greater worth. 

Dor. Where justice wanted, could reward be hoped ? 
Could the robbed passenger expect a bounty 
From those rapacious hands who stripped him first ? 

Seb. He had my promise ere I knew thy love. 

Dor. My services deserved thou shouldst revoke it. 

Seb. Thy insolence had cancelled all thy service ; 
To violate my laws, even in my court, 
Sacred to peace, and safe from all affronts ; 
Ev'n to my face, and done in my despite, 
Under the wing of awful majesty 
To strike the man I loved ! 

Dor. Ev'n in the face of heaven, a place more sacred, 
Would I have struck the man who, prompt by power, 
Would seize my right, and rob me of my love : 
But, for a blow provoked by thy injustice, 
The hasty product of a just despair, 
When he refused to meet me in the field, 
That thou shouldst make a coward's cause thy own ! 

Seb. He durst : nay, more, desired and begged with 
tears, 
To meet, thy challenge fairly : 'twas thy fault 
To make it public ; but my duty, then 
To interpose, on pain of my displeasure, 
Betwixt your swords. 

Dor. On pain of infamy 
He should have disobeyed. 

Seb. Th' indignity thou didst was meant to me : 



DRYDEX. 173 

Thy gloomy eyes were cast on me with scorn, 
As who should say, the blow was there intended ; 
But that thou didst not dare to lift thy hands 
Against anointed power : so was I forced 
To do a sovereign justice to myself, 
And spurn thee from my presence. 

Dor. Thou hast dared 
To tell me what I durst not tell myself: 
I durst not think that I was spurned, and live ; 
And live to hear it boasted to my face. 
All my long avarice of honour lost, 
Heaped up in youth, and hoarded up for age : 
Has Honour's fountain then sucked back the stream ! 
He has ; and hooting boys may dry-shod pass, 
And gather pebbles from the naked ford. 
Give me my love, my honour ; give them back — 
Give me revenge, while I have breath to ask it. 

Seb. Now, by 'this honoured order which I wear, 
More gladly would I give than thou dar'st ask it. 
Nor shall the sacred character of king- 
Be urged to shield me from thy bold appeal. 
If I have injured thee, that makes us equal : 
The wrong, if done, debased me down to thee : 
But thou hast charged me with ingratitude ; 
Hast thou not charged me ? Speak. 

Dor. Thou know'st I have. 
If thou disown'st that imputation, draw, 
And prove my charge a lie. 

Seb. No ; to disprove that lie, I must not draw : 
Be conscious to thy worth, and tell thy soul 
What thou hast done this day in my defence : 
To r thee, after this, what were it else 



174 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Than owning that ingratitude thou urgest ? 
That isthmus stands between two rushing seas ; 
Which, mounting, view each other from afar, 
And strive in vain to meet. 

Dor. I'll cut that isthmus : 
Thou know'st I meant not to preserve thy life, 
But to reprieve it, for my own revenge. 
I saved thee out of honourable malice : 
Now draw; I should be loath to think thou dar'st not: 
Beware of such another vile excuse. 

Seb. Oh, patience, Heaven ! 

Dor. Beware of patience too ; 
That's a suspicious word : it had been proper, 
Before thy foot had spurned me ; now 'tis base : 
Yet, to disarm thee of thy last defence, 
I have thy oath for my security : 
The only boon I begged was this fair combat : 
Fight, or be perjured now ; that's all thy choice. 

Seb. Now can I thank thee as thou wouldst be thanked : 
Never was vow of honour better paid, \Drawwg. 

If my true sword but hold, than this shall be. 
The sprightly bridegroom, on his wedding-night, 
More gladly enters not the lists of love. 
Why, 'tis enjoyment to be summoned thus. 
Go ; bear my message to Henriquez' ghost ; 
And say his master and his friend revenged him. 

Dor. His ghost ! then is my hated rival dead ? 

Seb. The question is beside our present purpose; 
Thou seest me ready ; we delay too long. 

Dor. A minute is not much in either 's life, 
When there's but one betwixt us ; throw it in, 
And give it him of us who is to fall. 



DKYDEX. IJ5 

Seb. He's dead : make haste, and thou may'st yet o'er- 
take him. 

Dor. When I was hasty, thou delay'dst me longer. 
I pr'ythee, let me hedge one moment more 
Into thy promise : for thy life preserved, 
Be kind ; and tell me how that rival died, 
Whose death, next thine, I wished. 

Seb. If it would please thee, thou shouldst never know. 
But thou, like jealousy, incmir'st a truth, 
Which found, will torture thee ; he died in fight : 
Fought next my person ; as in concert fought : 
Kept pace for pace, and blow for every blow ; 
Save when he heaved his shield in my defence, 
And on his naked side received my wound : 
Then, when he could no more, he fell at once, 
But rolled his falling body 'cross their way, 
And made a bulwark of it for his prince. 

Dor. I never can forgive him such a death ! 

Seb. I prophesied thy proud soul could not bear it. 
Now, judge thyself, who best deserved my love. 
I knew you both ; and, durst I say, as Heav'n 
Foreknew among the shining angel host 
Who should stand firm, who fall. 

Dor. Had he been tempted so, so had he fall'n; 
And so had I been favoured, had I stood. 

Seb. What had been, is unknown ; what is, appears ; 
Confess he justly was preferred to thee. 

Dor. Had I been born with his indulgent stars, 
My fortune had been his, and his been mine. 
Oh, worse than hell ! what glory have I lost, 
And what has he acquired by such a death ! 
I should have fallen by Sebastian's side ; 



1-6 G OLDEN LEAVES. 

My corpse had been the bulwark of my king. 

His glorious end was a patched work of fate, 

Ill-sorted with a soft, effeminate life : 

It suited better with my life than his 

So to have died : mine had been of a piece, 

Spent in your service, dying at your feet. 

Seb. The more effeminate and soft his life, 
The more his fame, to struggle to the field, 
And meet his glorious fate : confess, proud spirit 
(For I will have it from thy very mouth), 
That better he deserved my love than thou. 

Dor. Oh, whither would you drive me ! I must grant, 
Yes, I must grant, but with a swelling soul, 
Henriquez had your love with more desert : 
For you he fought and died ; I fought against you ; 
Through all the mazes of the bloody field 
Hunted your sacred life ; which that I missed, 
Was the propitious error of my fate, 
Not of my soul ; my soul's a regicide. 

Seb. Thou might'st have given it a more gentle name ; 
Thou meanest to kill a tyrant, not a king. 
Speak ; didst thou not, Alonzo ? 

Dor. Can I speak ? 
Alas ! I cannot answer to Alonzo : 
No, Dorax cannot answer to Alonzo : 
Alonzo was too kind a name for me. 
Then, when I fought and conquered with your arms, 
In that blest age I was the man you named ; 
Till rage and pride debased me into Dorax, 
And lost, like Lucifer, my name above. 

Seb. Yet twice this day I owed my life to Dorax.. 

Dor. I saved you but to kill you : there's my grief. 



DRY DEN. 177 

Seb Nay, if thou canst be grieved, thou canst repent ; 
Thou couldst not be a villain, though thou wouldst; 
Thou own'st too much, in owning thou hast erred ; 
And I too little, who provoked thy crime. 

Dor. Oh, stop this headlong torrent of your goodness ; 
It comes too fast upon a feeble soul 
Half drowned in tears before ; spare my confusion ; 
For pity, spare, and say not first you erred. 
For yet I have not dared, through guilt and shame, 
To throw myself beneath your royal feet. 
Now spurn this rebel, this proud renegade : 
'Tis just you should, nor will I more complain. 

Seb. Indeed thou shouldst not ask forgiveness first ; 
But thou prevent'st me still, in all that's noble. 
Yes, I will raise thee up with better news : 
Thy Violante's heart was ever thine ; 
Compelled to wed, because she was my ward, 
Her soul was absent when she gave her hand: 
Nor could my threats, or his pursuing courtship, 
Effect the consummation of his love : 
So, still indulging tears, she pines for thee, 
A widow and a maid. 

Dor. Have I been cursing Heav'n, while Heaven blessed 
me ? 
I shall run mad with ecstasy of joy : 
What, in one moment to be reconciled 
To Heaven, and to my king, and to my love ! 
But pity is my friend, and stops me short, 
For my unhappy rival. Poor Henriquez ! 

, Seb. Art thou so generous, too, to pity him ? 
Nay, then, I was unjust to love him better. 
Here let me ever hold thee in my arms ; 



178 G OLDEN LEA VES. 

And all our quarrels be but such as these, 
Who shall love best, and closest shall embrace : 
Be what Henriquez was : be my Alonzo. 

Dor. What ! my /\lonzo, said you ? My Alonzc; » 
Let my tears thank you ; for I cannot speak ; 
And if I could, 
Words were not made to vent such thoughts as mine. 

Seb. Thou canst not speak, and I can ne'er be silen 
Some strange reverse of fate must sure attend 
This vast profusion, this extravagance 
Of Heaven to bless me thus. 'Tis gold so pure, 
It cannot bear the stamp, without alloy. 
Be kind, ye Powers, and take but half away : 
With ease the gifts of fortune I resign ; 
But let my love, and friend, be ever mine. 



THE CONQJJEST OF GRENADA. 

Love. 

Love is that madness which all lovers have ; 
Bat yet 'tis sweet and pleasing so to rave. 
'Tis an enchantment, where the reason's bound ; 
But Paradise is in th' enchanted ground. 
A palace void of envy, cares, and strife ; 
Where gentle hours delude so much of life. 
To take those charms away, and set me free, 
Is but to send me into misery. 
And prudence, of whose cure so much you boast, 
Restores those pains which that sweet folly lost. . . . 
Unveil, my love, and lay aside your fears. 
The storm that caused your fright is past and done. 



BR YD EN. 179 

Love and Friendship. 

That friendship which from withered love doth shoot, 
Like the faint herbage on a rock, wants root ; 
Love is a tender amity, refined : 
Grafted on friendship, it exalts the mind ; 
But when the graffno longer does remain, 
The dull stock lives, but never bears again. 



TYRANNIC LOVE. 

Fear of Death. 

Berenice, Saint Catherine. 

Ber. Now death draws near, a strange perplexity- 
Creeps coldly on me, like a fear to die : 
Courage uncertain dangers may abate, 
But who can bear th' approach of certain fate ? 

St. Catk. The wisest and the best some fear may show, 
And wish to stay, though they resolve to go. 

Ber. As some faint pilgrim, standing on the shore, 
First views the torrent he would venture o'er, 
And then his inn upon the farther ground, 
Loath to wade through, and loather to go round : 
Then dipping in his staff, does trial make 
How deep it is, and, sighing, pulls it back : 
Sometimes resolved to fetch his leap ; and then 
Runs to the bank, but there stops short again : 
So I at once 

Both heavenly faith and human fear obey ; 
And feel before me in an unknown way. 
For this blest voyage I with joy prepare, 
Yet am ashamed to be a stranger there. 



l8o GOLDEN LEAVES. 



THE SPANISH FRIAR. 

Lo<ve and Beauty. 

A change so swift what heart did ever feel ! 
It rushed upon me like a mighty stream, 
And bore me in a moment far from shore. 
I've loved away myself; in one short hour 
Already am I gone an age of passion. 
Was it his youth, his valour, or success ? 
These might, perhaps, be found in other men, 
'Twas that respect, that awful homage paid me ; 
That fearful love which trembled in his eyes, 
And with a silent earthquake shook his soul. 
But when he spoke, what tender words he said ! 
So softly, that, like flakes of feathered snow, 
They melted as they fell. 



THE INDIAN EMPEROR. 

Midnight Repose. 

All things are hushed, as Nature's self lay dead; 
The mountains seem to nod their drowsy head, 
The little birds in dreams their songs repeat, 
And sleeping flowers beneath the night-dew sweat ; 
Even lust and envy sleep, yet love denies 
Rest to my soul and slumber to my eyes. 
Three days I promised to attend my doom, 
And two long days and nights are yet to come ; 
'Tis sure the noise of a tumultuous fight ; [Noise within. 
They break the truce, and sally out by night. 



LEE. 181 



ALEXANDER THE GREAT ; OR, THE RIVAL QUEENS. 

Alexander, hawing condemned to death Lysimachus, for demanding 
in marriage Parisatis, 'whom he had destined as the Bride of his 
Favourite, Hephestion, revokes the sentence, and aivaits the pres- 
ence of Lysimachus at a grand Regal Banquet, ivherc Clytus, a 
brave old Soldier, refusing to pay Divine Honours to Alexander, is 
killed. 

Alexander, Perdiccas, Cassander, Polyperchon, Eu- 
menes, discovered at a Banquet, &tc. 

[A flourish of trumpets. 
Alex* To our immortal health and our fair queen's ; 
All drink it deep ; and while the bowl goes round, 
Mars and Bellona join to make us music ; 
A thousand bulls be offered to the sun, 
White as his beams ; speak the big voice of war ; 
Beat all our drums, and sound our silver trumpets ; 
Provoke the gods to follow our example 
In bowls of nectar, and replying thunder. 

[Flourish of trumpets. 

Enter Clytus, Hephestion, and Lysimachus, bloody. 

Clyt Long live the king ! long live great Alexander ! 
And conquest crown his arms with deathless laurels, 
Propitious to his friends, and all he favours. 

Alex. Did I not give command you should preserve 
Lysimachus ? 

Heph. Dread sir ! you did. 

Alex, What then 
Portend these bloody marks ? 

Heph, Ere we arrived 



182 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Perdiccas had already placed the prince 
In a lone court, all but his hands unarmed. 

ClyL On them were gauntlets ; such was his desire, 
In death to show the difference betwixt 
The blood of iEacus and common men. 
Forth issuing from his den amazed we saw 
The horrid savage, with whose hideous roar 
The palace shook : his angry eye-balls, glaring 
With triple fury, menaced death and ruin. 

Heph. With unconcern the gallant prince advanced, 
Now, Parisatis. be the glory thine, 
But mine the danger, were his only words ; 
For as he spoke the furious beast descried him, 
And rushed outrageous to devour his prey. 

Clyt. Agile and vigorous, he avoids the shock 
With a slight wound, and as the lion turned, 
Thrust gauntlet, arm and all, into his throat, 
And with Herculean strength tears forth the tongue : 
Foaming and bloody, the disabled savage 
Sunk to the earth, and ploughed it with his teeth ; 
While with an active bound your conquering soldier 
Leaped on his back, and dashed his skull in pieces. 

Alex. By all my laurels, 'twas a godlike act ! 
And 'tis my glory, as it shall be thine, 
That Alexander could not pardon thee. 
Oh, my brave soldier ! think not all the prayers 
And tears of the lamenting queens could move me, 
Like what thou hast performed : grow to my breast. 

Lys. Thus, self-condemned, and conscious of my guilt, 
How shall I stand such unexampled goodness ? 
Oh, pardon, sir, the transports of despair, 
The frantic outrage of ungoverned love ! 



LEE. 183 

Even when I showed the greatest want of reverence 
I could have died with rapture in your service. 

Alex. Lysimachus, we both have been transported : 
But from this hour be certain of my heart, 
A lion be the impress of thy shield ; 
And that gold armour we from Poms won 

Thy king presents thee But thy wounds ask rest. 

Lys. I have no wounds, dread sir ! or if I had, 
Were they all mortal, they should stream unminded 
When Alexander was the glorious health. 

Alex. Thy hand, Hephestion : clasp him to thy heart, 
And wear him ever near thee. Parisatis 
Shall now be his who serves me best in war. 
Neither reply, but mark the charge I give ; 
Live, live as friends — you will, you must, you shall : 
'Tis a god gives you life. 

Clyt. Oh, monstrous vanity ! 
Alex. Ha ! what says Clytus ? who am I ? 
Clyt. The son of good king Philip. 
Alex. By my kindred gods 
'Tis false. Great Ammon gave me birth. 
Clyt. Pve done. 

Alex. Clytus, what means that dress ? Give him a robe, 
there. 
Take it and wear it. 

Clyt. Sir, the wine, the weather, 
Has heated me : besides, you know my humour. 

Alex. Oh, 'tis not well ! I'd rather perish, burn, 
Than be so singular and froward. 

Clyt. So would I 

Burn, hang, drown, but in a better cause. 
I'll drink or fight for sacred majesty 
9 



184 GOLDEN LE AVES- 

With any here. Fill me another bowl. 
Will you excuse me ? 

Alex. You will be excused : 
But let him have his humour ; he is old. 

Clyt. So was your father, sir ; this to his memory : 
Sound all the trumpets there. 

Alex. They shall not sound 
'Till the king drinks. Sure I was born to wage 
Eternal war. All are my enemies, 
Whom I could tame — But let the sports go on. 

Lys. Nay, Clytus, you that could advise so well — 

Alex. Let him persist, be positive, and proud, 
Envious and sullen, 'mongst the nobler souls, 
Like an infernal spirit that hath stole 
From hell, and mingled with the mirth of gods. 

Clyt. When gods grow hot, no difference I know 
'Twixt them and devils — Fill me Greek wine — yet — 
Yet fuller — I want spirits. 

Alex. Let me have music. 

Clyt. Music for boys — Clytus would hear the groans 
Of dying soldiers and the neigh of steeds; 
Or, if I must be pestered with shrill sounds, 
Give me the cries of matrons in sacked towns. 

Hepk. Let us, Lysimachus, awake the king; 
A heavy gloom is gathering on his brow. 
Kneel all, with humblest adoration, kneel, 
And let a health to Jove's great son go round. 

Alex. Sound, sound, that all the universe may hear. 

[A loud flourish of trumpets. 
Oh, for the voice of Jove ! the world should know 
The kindness of my people — Rise ! oh rise ! 
My hands, my arms, my heart, are ever yours. 



LEE. 185 

Clyi. I did not kiss the earth, nor must your hand — 
I am unworthy, sir. 

Alex, I know thou art : 
Thou enviest the great honour of thy master. 
Sit, all my friends. Now let us talk of war, 
The noblest subject for a soldier's mouth, 
And speak, speak freely, else you love me not. 
Who, think you, was the greatest general 
That ever led an army to the field ? 

Heph. A chief so great, so fortunately brave, 
And justly so renowned as Alexander, 
The radiant sun, since first his beams gave light, 
Never vet saw. 

Lys. Such was not Cyrus, or the famed Alcides, 
Nor great Achilles, whose tempestuous sword 
Laid Troy in ashes, though the warring gods 
Opposed him. 

Alex. Oh, you flatter me ! 

Clyt. They do, indeed, and yet you love them for't, 
But hate old Clytus for his hardy virtue. 
Come, shall I speak a man with equal bravery, 
A better general, and experter soldier ? 

Alex. I should be glad to learn: instruct me, sir. 

Clyt. Your father, Philip — I have seen him march, 
And fought beneath his dreadful banner, where 
The boldest at this table would have trembled. 
Nay, frown not, sir, you cannot look me dead. 
When Greeks joined Greeks, then was the tug of war ! 
The laboured battle sweat, and conquest bled. 
Why should I fear to speak a bolder truth 
Than e'er the lying priests of Ammon told you ? 
Philip fought men — but Alexander women. 



186 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Alex, All envy, spite and envy, by the gods ! 
Is then my glory come to this at last, 
To conquer women ! Nay, he said the stoutest, 
The stoutest here, would tremble at his dangers. 
In all the sickness, all the wounds, I bore, 
When from my reins the javelin's head was cut, 
Lysimachus, Hephestion, speak, Perdiccas, 
Did I once tremble ? Oh, the cursed falsehood ! 
Did I once shake or groan, or act beneath 
The dauntless resolution of a king ? 

Lys. Wine has transported him. 

Alex. No, 'tis mere malice. 
I was a woman too, at Oxydrace, 
When planting on the walls a scaling ladder 
I mounted, spite of showers of stones, bars, arrows, 
And all the lumber which they thundered down. 
When you beneath cryed out, and spread your arms, 
That I should leap among you — did I so ? 

Lys. Dread sir ! the old man knows not what he says. 

Alex. Was I a woman, when, like Mercury, 
I leaped the walls and flew amidst the foe, 
And, like a baited lion, dyed myself 
All over in the blood of those bold hunters ; 
Till spent with toil I battled on my knees, 
Plucked forth the darts that made my shield a forest, 
And hurled 'em back with most unconquered fury; 
Then shining in my arms I sunned the field, 
Moved, spoke, and fought, and was myself a war ? 

Clyt. 'Twas all bravado ; for, before you leaped, 
V^ou saw that I had burst the gates asunder. 

Alex. Oh, that thou wert but once more young and 
vigorous ! 



LEE. 187 

That I might strike thee prostrate to the earth, 
For this audacious lie, thou feeble dotard ! 

Clyt. I know the reason why you use me thus : 
I saved you from the sword of bold Rhesaces, 
Else had your godship slumbered in the dust, 
And most ungratefully you hate me for it. 

Alex, Hence from the banquet : thus far I forgive thee. 

Clyt. First try (for none can want forgiveness more) 
To have your own bold blasphemies forgiven, 
The shameful riots of a vicious life, 
Philotas' murder 

Alex. Ha ! what said the traitor ? 

Heph. Clytus, withdraw ; Eumenes, force him hence : 
He must not tarry : drag him to the door. 

Clyt. No, let him send me, if I must be gone, 
To Philip, Atalaus, Calisthenes, 
To great Parmenio, and his slaughtered sons. 

Alex. Give me a javelin. 

Heph. Hold, mighty sir ! 

Alex. Sirrah ! off, 
Lest I at once strike through his heart and thine. 

Lys. Oh, sacred sir ! have but a moment's patience. 

Alex. What ! hold my arms ! I shall be murdered here, 
Like poor Darius, by my barbarous subjects. 
Perdiccas, sound our trumpets to the camp; 
Call all my soldiers to the court : nay, haste, 
For there is treason plotting 'gainst my life, 
And I shall perish ere they come to save me. 
Where is the traitor ? 

Clyt. Sure there is none amongst us, 
But here I stand — honest Clytus, 
Whom the king invited to the banquet. 



188 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Alex, Begone to Philip, Atalaus, Calisthenes ! [Stabs him. 
And let bold subjects learn, by thy example, 
Not to provoke the patience of their prince. 

ClyL The rage of wine is drowned in gushing blood. 
Oh, Alexander ! I have been to blame : 
Hate me not after death ; Tor I repent 
That I so far have urged your noble nature. 

Alex. What's this I hear ! say on, my dying soldier. 

ClyL I should have killed myself had I but lived 
To be once sober — Now I fall with honour; 
My own hands would have brought foul death. Oh, par- 
don ! [Dies. 

Alex. Then I am lost : what has my vengeance done ? 
Who is it thou hast slain ? Clytus ! what was he ? 
The faithfullest subject, worthiest counsellor, 
The bravest soldier, he who saved thy life, 
Fighting bareheaded at the river Granick, 
And now he has a noble recompense ; 
For a rash word, spoke in the heat of wine, 
The poor, the honest Clytus thou hast slain, 
Clytus, thy friend, thy guardian, thy preserver ! 

Heph. Remove the body, it inflames his sorrow. 

Alex. None dare to touch him : we must never part. 
Cruel Hephestion and Lysimachus, 
That had the power, yet would not hold me. Oh ! 

Lys. Dear sir, we did. 

Alex. I know ye did ; yet held me 
Like a wild beast, to let me go again 
With greater violence. — Oh, ye have undone me ! 
Excuse it not : you that could stop a lion, 
Could not turn me ! ye should have drawn your swords, 
And barred my rage with their advancing points, 



LEE. 189 

Made reason glitter in my dazzled eyes 

Till I had seen the precipice before me : 

That had been noble, that had shown the friend : 

Clytus would so have done to save your lives. 

Lys. When men shall hear how highly you were urged — 

Alex. No ; you have let me stain my rising glory, 
Which else had ended brighter than the sun. 
Oh ! I am all a blot, which seas of tears 
And my heart's blood can never wash away : 
Yet 'tis but just I try, and on the point 
Still reeking, hurl my black polluted breast. 

Heph. Oh, sacred sir ! it shall not — must not be. 

Lys. Forgive, dread sir ! — forgive my pious hands, 
That dare in duty to disarm my master. 

Alex. Yes, cruel men ! ye now can show your strength : 
Here's not a slave but dares oppose my justice, 
Yet none had courage to prevent this murder : 
But I will render all endeavours vain 

That tend to save my life — here will I lie, [Falls on Clytus. 
Close to my murdered soldier's bleeding side ; 
Thus clasping his cold body in my arms, 
'Till death, like his, has closed my eyes forever. 

Roxana, the first Queen of Alexander, jealous of Statira, a Persian 
Princess, beloved by Alexander, joins a Conspiracy against the King t 
and determines to sacrifice her Rival to her jealousy and vengeance. 

The Bower of Semiramis. — Statira discovered. 

Stat. Bless me, ye Powers above, and guard my virtue ! 
Where are you fled, dear shades ? where are you fled ! 
'Twas but a dream, and yet I saw and heard 
My royal parents, who, while pious care 
Sat on my faded cheeks, pronounced with tears, 



190 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Tears such as angels weep, this hour my last, 
But hence with fear — my Alexander comes, 
And fear and danger ever fled from him. 
Would that he were here ! 
For oh, I tremble, and a thousand terrors 
Rush in upon me, and alarm my heart ! 
But hark ! 'tis he, and all my fears are fled : 
My life, my joy, my Alexander, comes ! 

Rox. [Within.^ Make fast the gate with all its massy 
bars : 
At length we've conquered this stupendous height, 
And reached the grove. 

Stat. Ye guardian gods, defend me ! 
Roxana's voice ! then all the vision's true, 
And die I must. 

Enter Roxana. 

Rox. Secure the brazen gate. 
Where is my rival ? 'tis Roxana calls. 

Stat. And what is she who with such towering pride 
Would awe a princess that is born above her ? 

Rox. Behold this dagger ! — 'tis thy fate, Statira ! 
Behold, and meet it as becomes a queen. 
Fain would I find thee worthy of my vengeance ; 
Here, take my weapon then, and if thou dar'st — 

Stat. Now little know'st thou what Statira dares ! 
Yes, cruel woman ! yes, I dare meet death 
With a resolve at which thy coward heart 
Would shrink ; for terror haunts the guilty mind ; 
While conscious innocence, that knows no fear, 
Can smiling pass, and scorn thy idle threats. 

Rox. Return, fair insolent ! return, I say : 



LEE. 191 

Dar'st thou, presumptuous, to invade my rights ! 
Restore him quickly to my longing arms, 
And with him give me back his broken vows, 
For perjured as he is, he still is mine, 
Or I will rend them from thy bleeding heart. 

Stat, Alas, Roxana ! 'tis not in my power ; 
I cannot if I would — and oh, ye gods ! 
What were the world to Alexander's loss ! 

Rox, Oh, sorceress ! to thy accursed charms 
I owe the frenzy that distracts my soul; 
To them I owe my Alexander's loss : 
Too late thou tremblest at my just revenge, 
My wrongs cry out, and vengeance will have way. 

Stat, Yet think, Roxana, ere you plunge in murder, 
Think on the horrors that must ever haunt you ; 
Think on the Furies, those avenging ministers 
Of Heaven's high wrath, how they will tear your soul, 
All day distract you with a thousand fears ; 
And when by night thou vainly seek'st repose, 
They'll gather round and interrupt your slumbers, 
With horrid dreams and terrifying visions. 

Rox, Add still, if possible, superior horrors. 
Rather than leave my great revenge unfinished, 
I'll dare 'em all, and triumph in the deed ; 
Therefore [Holds up the dagger. 

Stat. Hold, hold thy hand advanced in air : 
I read my sentence written in thine eyes ; 
Yet oh, Roxana ! on thy black revenge 
One kindly ray of female pity beam ; 
And give me death in Alexander's presence. 

Rox. Not for the world's wide empire shouldst thou see 
him. 



192 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Fool ! but for him thou mightst unheeded live ; 
For his sake only art thou doomed to die ; 
The sole remaining joy that glads my soul, 
Is to deprive thee of the heart I've lost. 

Enter Slave. 
Slave. Madam, the king and all his guards are come, 
With frantic rage they thunder at the gate, 
And must ere this have gained admittance. 

Rox. Ha! 
Too long I've trifled. Let me then redeem 
The time misspent, and make great vengeance sure. 

Stat. Is Alexander, oh ye gods ! so nigh, 
And can he not preserve me from her fury ? 

Rox. Nor he, nor Heaven, shall shield thee from my 
justice. 
Die, sorceress, die, and all my wrongs die with thee ! 

[Stabs her. 



Stomas ©tumti. 

VENICE PRESERVED. 

Jaffier, a young Nobleman of Venice y of reduced Fortune, marries 
Belvidera, Daughter of Priuli, a Senator of Venice^ contrary to the 
wishes of her Father, ivho disinherits her. Jaffier, in his destitu- 
tion, solicits assistance from Priuli, and is repelled with scorn and 
contumely by the enraged Father. While smarting ivith the sense of 
his degradation, Jaffier is met by his Friend Pierre, ivho has 
headed a Conspiracy to overturn the Government of Venice. 

Priuli, Jaffier. 
Pri. . . . Home, and be humble ; study to retrench ; 
Discharge the lazy vermin of thy hall, 



OTWA Y. 193 

Those pageants of thy folly : 

Reduce the glitt'ring trappings of thy wife 

To humble weeds, fit for thy little state : 

Then, to some suburb cottage both retire ; 

Drudge to feed loathsome life ; get brats, and starve — 

Home, home, I say ! [Exit. 

Jaf. Yes, if my heart would let me — 
This proud, this swelling heart : home I would go, 
But that my doors are baleful to my eyes, 

Filled and dammed up with gaping creditors 

I've now not fifty ducats in the world, 

Yet still I am in love, and pleased with ruin. 

O Belvidera! Oh! she is my wife — 

And we will bear our wayward fate together, 

But ne'er know comfort more. 

Enter Pierre. 

Pier. My friend, good-morrow ! 
How fares the honest partner of my heart ? 
What, melancholy ! not a word to spare me ? 

Jof. I'm thinking, Pierre, how that damned starving 
quality, 
Called honesty, got footing in the world. 

Pier. Why, powerful villany first set it up, 
For its own ease and safety. Honest men 
Are the soft, easy cushions on which knaves 
Repose and fatten. Were all mankind villains, 
They'd starve each other; lawyers would want practice. 
Cut-throats rewards : each man would kill his brother 
Himself; none would be paid or hanged for murde . 
Honesty ! 'twas a cheat invented first 
To bind the hands of bold, deserving rogues, 



194 G OLDEN LEA VES. 

That fools and cowards might sit safe in power, 
And lord it uncontrolled above their betters. 

Jaf. Then honesty is but a notion ? 

Pier. Nothing else ; 
Like wit, much talked of, not to be defined : 
He that pretends to most, too, has least share in't. 
'Tis a ragged virtue. — Honesty ! no more on't. 

Jaf. Sure, thou art honest ! 

Pier. So, indeed, men think me; 
But they're mistaken, Jaifier : I'm a rogue 
As well as they ; 

A fine, gay, bold-faced villain, as thou seest me. 
'Tis true, I pay my debts, when they're contracted ; 
I steal from no man ; would not cut a throat 
To gain admission to a great man's purse, 
Or a whore's bed ; I'd not betray my friend 
To get his place or fortune ; I scorn to flatter 
A blown-up fool above me, or crush the wretch beneath me ; 
Yet, Jafiier, for all this I'm a villain. 

Jaf. A villain ! 

Pier. Yes, a most notorious villain; 
To see the sufferings of my fellow-creatures, 
And own myself a man : to see our senators 
Cheat the deluded people with a show 
Of liberty, which yet they ne'er must taste of. 
They say, by them our hands are free from fetters ; 
Yet whom they please they lay in basest bonds ; 
Bring whom they please to infamy and sorrow ; 
Drive us, like wrecks, down the rough tide of power, 
Whilst no hold's left to save us from destruction. 
All that bear this are villains, and I one, 
Not to rouse up at the great call of Nature, 



o t wa r. 1 9 ; 

And check the growth of these domestic spoilers, 
That make us slaves, and tell us, 'tis our charter. 

Jaf. I think no safety can be here for virtue, 
And grieve, my friend, as much as thou, to live 
In such a wretched state as this of Venice, 
Where all agree to spoil the public good, 
And villains fatten with the brave man's labours. 

Pier. We've neither safety, unity, nor peace, 
For the foundation's lost of common good ; 
Justice is lame, as well as blind, amongst us ; 
The laws (corrupted to their ends that make 'em) 
Serve but for instruments of some new tyranny, 
That every day starts up, t' enslave us deeper. 
Now, could this glorious cause but find out friends 
To do it right, O Jaffier ! then might'st thou 
Not wear these seals of woe upon thy face ; 
The proud Priuli should be taught humanity, 
And learn to value such a son as thou art. 
I dare not speak, but my heart bleeds this moment. 

Jaf. Cursed be the cause, though I thy friend be part 
on't : 
Let me partake the troubles of thy bosom, 
For I am used to misery, and perhaps 
May find a way to sweeten 't to thy spirit. 

Pier. Too soon 'twill reach thy knowledge 

Jaf. Then from thee 
Let it proceed. There's virtue in thy friendship, 
Would make the saddest tale of sorrow pleasing, 
Strengthen my constancy, and welcome ruin. 

Pier. Then thou art ruined ! 

Jaf. That I long since knew ; 
I and ill fortune have been long acquainted. 



19^ C OLDEN LEAVES. 

Pier, I passed this very moment by thy doors, 
And found them guarded by a troop of villains ; 
The sons of public rapine were destroying. 
They told me, by the sentence of the law, 
They had commission to seize all thy fortune : 
Nay, more, — Priuli's cruel hand had signed it. 
Here stood a ruffian with a horrid face, 
Lording it o'er a pile of massy plate, 
Tumbled into a heap for public sale ; 
There was another, making villanous jests 
At thy undoing : he had ta'en possession 
Of all thy ancient, most domestic ornaments, 
Rich hangings intermixed and wrought with gold ; 
The very bed, which on thy wedding-night 
Received thee to the arms of Belvidera, 
The scene of all thy joys, was violated 
By the coarse hands of filthy dungeon villains, 
And thrown amongst the common lumber. 

Jaf. Now, thank Heaven 

Pier. Thank Heaven ! for what ? 

Jaf. That I am not worth a ducat. 

Pier. Curse thy dull stars, and the worse fate of Venice ! 
Where brothers, friends, and fathers, all are false; 
Where there's no truth, no trust ; where Innocence 
Stoops under vile Oppression, and Vice lords it ! 
Hadst thou but seen, as I did, how at last 
Thy beauteous Belvidera, like a wretch 
That's doomed to banishment, came weeping forth, 
Shining through tears, like April suns in showers, 
That labour to o'ercome the cloud that loads 'em ; 
Whilst two young virgins, on whose arms she leaned, 
Kindly looked up, and at her grief grew sad, 






o twa r. 197 

As if they catched the sorrows that fell from her. 
Even the lewd rabble, that were gathered round 
To see the sight, stood mute when they beheld her : 
Governed their roaring throats, and grumbled pity. 
I could have hugged the greasy rogues : they pleased me. 

J of. I thank thee for this story ; from my soul ; 
Since now I know the worst that can befall me. 
Ah, Pierre ! I have a heart that could have borne 
The roughest wrong my fortune could have done me ; 
But when I think what Belvidera feels, 
The bitterness her tender spirit tastes of, 
I own myself a coward : bear my weakness, 
If, throwing thus my arms about thy neck, 
I play the boy, and blubber in thy bosom : 
Oh ! I shall drown thee with my sorrows. 

Pier, Burn, 
First burn and level Venice to thy ruin ! 
What ! starve like beggars' brats, in frosty weather, 
Under a hedge, and whine ourselves to death ? 
Thou or thy cause shall never want assistance, 
Whilst I have blood or fortune fit to serve thee : 
Command my heart, thou'rt every way its master. 

J of. No, there's a secret pride in bravely dying. 

Pier, Rats die in holes and corners, dogs run mad ; 
Man knows a braver remedy for sorrow : 
Revenge, the attribute of gods ; they stamped it, 
With their great image, on our natures. Die ! 
Consider well the cause, that calls upon thee ; 
And, if thou'rt base enough, die then. Remember, 
Thy Belvidera suffers ; Belvidera ! 

Die — damn first What ! be decently interred 

In a churchyard, and mingle thy brave dust 



19$* GOLDEN LEAVES/ 

With stinking rogues, that rot in winding-sheets, 
Surfeit-slain fools, the common dung o' th' soil ! 

Jaf. Oh! 

Pier. Well said : out with't, swear a little- 



Jaf. Swear ! By sea and air, by earth, by heaven and 
hell, 
I will revenge my Belvidera's tears. 
Hark, thee, my friend ! Priuli — is — a senator. 

Pier. A dog ! 

Jaf. Agreed. 

Pier. Shoot him ! 

Jaf. With all my heart. 
No more ; where shall we meet at night ? 

Pier. I'll tell thee : 
On the Rialto, every night at twelve, 
I take my evening's walk of meditation ; 
There we two will meet, and talk of precious 
Mischief 

Jaf. Farewell. 

Pier. At twelve. 

Jaf. At any hour ; my plagues 
Will keep me waking. [Exit Pierre. 

Tell me why, good Heaven, 
Thou mad'st me what I am, with all the spirit, 
Aspiring thoughts, and elegant desires, 
That fill the happiest man ? Ah, rather, why 
Didst thou not form me sordid as my fate, 
Base-minded, dull, and fit to carry burdens ? 
Why have I sense to know the curse that's on me ? 
Is this just dealing, Nature ? — Belvidera ! 

Enter Belvidera. 
Poor Belvidera ! 



OTWA Y. 199 

Bel. Lead me, lead me, my virgins, 
To that kind voice. My lord, my love, my refuge ! 
Happy my eyes, when they behold thy face ! 
My heavy heart will leave its doleful beating 
At sight of thee, and bound with sprightly joys. 
Oh, smile ! as when our loves were in their spring, 
And cheer my fainting soul. 

Jfaf. As when our loves 
Were in their spring ! Has, then, our fortune changed ? 
Art thou not, Belvidera, still the same, 
Kind, good, and tender, as my arms first found thee ? 
If thou art altered, where shall I have harbour ? 
Where ease my loaded heart ? Oh ! where complain ? 

Bel. Does this appear like change, or love decaying, 
When thus I throw myself into thy bosom, 
With all the resolution of strong truth ? 
Beats not my heart, as 'twould alarum thine 
To a new charge of bliss ? — I joy more in thee, 
Than did thy mother, when she hugged thee first, 
And blessed the gods for all her travail past. 

Jaf. Can there in woman be such glorious faith ? 
Sure, all ill stories of thy sex are false ! 

woman ! lovely woman ! Nature made thee 

To temper man : we had been brutes without you ! 
Angels are painted fair, to look like you : 
There's in you all that we believe of heaven ; 
Amazing brightness, purity, and truth, 
Eternal joy, and everlasting love. 

Bel. If love be treasure, we'll be wondrous rich ; 

1 have so much, my heart will surely break with't : 
Vows can't express it. When I would declare 
How great's my joy, I'm dumb with the big thought ; 



200 G OLDEN LEAVES. 

I swell, and sigh, and labour with my longing. 
Oh, lead me to some desert wide and wild, 
Barren as our misfortunes, where my soul 
May have its vent, where I may tell aloud 
To the high heavens, and every list'ning planet, 
With what a boundless stock my bosom's fraught ; 
Where I may throw my eager arms about thee, 
Give loose to love, with kisses kindling joy, 
And let off all the fire that's in my heart ! 

J of* O Belvidera ! doubly I'm a beggar : 
Undone by Fortune, and in debt to thee. 
Want, worldly Want, that hungry, meagre fiend, 
Is at my heels, and chases me in view. 
Canst thou bear cold and hunger ? Can these limbs, 
Framed for the tender offices of love, 
Endure the bitter gripes of smarting poverty ? 
When banished by our miseries abroad 
(As suddenly we shall be), to seek out 
In some far climate, where our names are strangers, 
For charitable succour; wilt thou then, 
When in a bed of straw we shrink together, 
And the bleak winds shall whistle round our heads, — 
Wilt thou then talk thus to me ? Wilt thou then 
Hush my cares thus, and shelter me with love ? 

Bel. Oh ! I will love thee, even in madness love thee, 
Though my distracted senses should forsake me ; 
I'd find some intervals, when my poor heart 
Should 'suage itself^ and be let loose to thine. 
Though the bare earth be all our resting-place, 
Its roots our food, some cleft our habitation, 
I'll make this arm a pillow for thine head ; 
And, as thou sighing liest, and swelled with sorrow, 



OTWAY. 201 

Creep to thy bosom, pour the balm of love 
Into thy soul, and kiss thee to thy rest ; 
Then praise our God, and watch thee till the morning. 
Jaf. Hear this, ye Heavens ! and wonder how you 
made her : 
Reign, reign, ye monarchs that divide the world, 
Busy rebellion ne'er will let you know 
Tranquillity and happiness like mine ! 
Like gaudy ships th' obsequious billows fall, 
And rise again to lift you in your pride ; 
They wait but for a storm, and then devour you ; 
I, in my private bark already wrecked, 
Like a poor merchant driven to unknown land, 
That had by chance packed up his choicest treasure 
In one dear casket, and saved only that ; 
Since I must wander farther on the shore, 
Thus hug my little, but my precious store, 
Resolved to scorn and trust my fate no more. [Exeunt, 



THE ORPHAN. 

Monimia, an Orphan , is brought up by Acasto, whose tivo Sons, Cas- 
talio and Polydore, have each bestcived their affections on " the 
Orphan" Castalio alone is beloved by Monimia, and a secret 
Marriage is contrived by the Lovers. Chamont, a young Soldier, 
Brother to MonimiA, hears reports against his Sisters honour, and 
seeks an explanation from Acasto and Monimia. 

Chamont, Acasto, Monimia. 
Cham, My lord, I stand in need of your assistance, 
In something that concerns my peace and honour. 

Acas. Spoke like the son of that brave man I loved ! 



202 G OLDEN LEAVE S. 

So freely, friendly, we conversed together. 
Whate'er it be, with confidence impart it ; 
Thou shalt command my fortune, and my sword. 

Cham. I dare not doubt your friendship, nor your justice. 
Your bounty shown to what I hold most dear, 
My orphan sister, must not be forgotten ! 

Acas. Pr'ythee no more of that, it grates my nature. 

Cham. When our dear parents died, they died together ; 
One fate surprised 'em, and one grave received 'em ; 
My father, with his dying breath, bequeathed 
Her to my love ; my mother, as she lay 
Languishing by him, called me to her side, 
Took me in her fainting arms, wept, and embraced me ; 
Then pressed me close, and, as she observed my tears, 
Kissed them away : said she, " Chamont, my son, 
By this, and all the love I ever showed thee, 
Be careful of Monimia : watch her youth ; 
Let not her wants betray her to dishonour; 
Perhaps kind Heaven may raise some friend." Then sighed 
Kissed me again ; so blessed us, and expired. 
Pardon my grief. 

Acas. It speaks an honest nature. 

Cham. The friend Heaven raised was you ; you took her 
up, 
An infant, to the desert world exposed, 
And proved another parent. 

Acas. I've not wronged her. 

Cham. Far be it from my fears. 

Acas. Then why this argument ? 

Cham. My lord, my nature's jealous, and you'll bear it. 

Acas. Go on. 

Cham. Great spirits bear misfortunes hardly ; 



T WA Y. 203 

Good offices claim gratitude ; and pride, 
Where power is wanting, will usurp a little, 
And make us (rather than be thought behindhand) 
Pay over price. 

Acas. I cannot guess your drift ; 
Distrust you me? 

Cham, No, but I fear her weakness 
May make her pay her debt at any rate ; 
And, to deal freely with your lordship's goodness, 
I've heard a story lately much disturbs me. 

Acas. Then first charge her ; and if th' offence be found 
Within my reach, though it should touch my nature, 
In my own offspring, by the dear remembrance 
Of thy brave father, whom my heart rejoiced in, 
I'd prosecute it with severest vengeance. [Exit 

Cham. I thank you, from my soul. 

Mon. Alas, my brother ! what have I done ? 
My heart quakes in me ; in your settled face, 
And clouded brow, methinks I see my fate. 
You will not kill me ? 

Cham. Pr'ythee, why dost thou talk so ? 

Mon. Look kindly on me then ; I cannot bear 
Severity ; it daunts, and does amaze me ; 
My heart's so tender, should you charge me rough, 
I should but weep, and answer you with sobbing ; 
But use me gently, like a loving brother, 
And search through all the secrets of my soul. 

Cham. Fear nothing, I will show myself a brother. 
A tender, honest, and a loving brother. 
You've not forgot our father? 

Mon. I never shall. 

Cham. Then you'll remember too he was a man 



2C4 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

That lived up to the standard of his honour, 

And prized that jewel more than mines of wealth : 

He'd not have done a shameful thing but once . 

Though kept in darkness from the world, and hidden. 

He could not have forgiven it to himself. 

This was the only portion that he left us, 

And I more glory in't than if possessed 

Of all that ever fortune threw on fools. 

'Twas a large trust, and must be managed nicely; 

Now, if by any chance, Monimia, 

You have soiled this gem, and taken from its value, 

How will you account with me ? 

Mon, I challenge envy, 
Malice, and all the practices of hell, 
To censure all the actions of my past 
Unhappy life, and taint me if they can ! 

Cham. I'll tell thee, then ; three nights ago, as I 
Lay musing on my bed, all darkness round me, 
A sudden damp struck to my heart, cold sweat 
Dewed all my face, and trembling seized my limbs : 
My bed shook under me, the curtains started, 
And to my tortured fancy there appeared 
The form of thee, thus beauteous as thou art ; 
Thy garments flowing loose, and in each hand 
A wanton lover, who by turns caressed thee 
With all the freedom of unbounded pleasure. 
I snatched my sword, and in the very moment 
Darted it at the phantom ; straight it left me ; 
Then rose, and called for lights, when, O dire omen ! 
I found my weapon had the arras pierced, 
Just where that famous tale was interwoven, 
How the unhappy Theban slew his father. 



T WA F, 205 

Mon. And for this cause my virtue is suspected ! 
Because in dreams your fancy has been ridden, 
I must be tortured waking ! 

Cham. Have a care ; 
Labour not to be justified too fast : 
Hear all, and then let justice hold the scale. 
What followed was the riddle that confounds me. 
Through a close lane, as I pursued my journey, 
And meditating on the last night's vision, 
I spied a wrinkled hag, with age grown double, 
Picking dry sticks, and mumbling to herself; 
Her eyes with scalding rheum were galled and red ; 
Cold palsy shook her head, her hand seemed withered, 
And on her crooked shoulders had she wrapped 
The tattered remnant of an old striped hanging, 
Which served to keep .her carcass from the cold : 
So there was nothing of a piece about her. 
Her lower weeds were all o'er coarsely patched 
With different coloured rags, black, red, white, yellow, 
And seemed to speak variety of wretchedness. 
I asked her of my way, which she informed me ; 
Then craved my charity, and bade me hasten 
To save a sister ! at that word I started ! 

Mon. The common cheat of beggars ; every day 
They flock about our doors, pretend to gifts 
Of prophecy, and telling fools their fortunes. 

Cham. Oh ! but she told me such a tale, Monimia, 
As in it bore great circumstance of truth : 
Castalio and Polydore, my sister. 

Mon. Ha ! 

Cham. What, altered ? does your courage fail you ? 
Now, by my father's soul, the witch was honest. 



206 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Answer me, if thou hast not lost them 
Thy honour at a sordid game ? 

Mon. I will, 
I must, so hardly my misfortune loads me : — 
That both have offered me their love's most true. 

Cham. And 'tis as true too they have both undone thee. 

Mon. Though they both with earnest vows 
Have pressed my heart, if e'er in thought I yielded 
To any but Castalio 

Cham. But Castalio ! 

Mon. Still will you cross the line of my discourse. 
Yes, I confess that he hath won my soul 
By generous love and honourable vows, 
Which he this day appointed to complete, 
And make himself by holy marriage mine. 

Cham. Art thou then spotless ? hast thou still preserved 
Thy virtue white, without a blot, untainted ? 

Mon. When I'm unchaste, may Heaven reject my prayers; 

more, to make me wretched, may you know it ! 
Cham. Oh, then, Monimia, art thou dearer to me 

Than all the comforts ever yet blessed man. 
But let not marriage bait thee to thy ruin. 
Trust not a man ; we are by nature false, 
Dissembling, subtle, cruel, and inconstant : 
When a man talks of love, with caution trust him ; 
But if he swears, he'll certainly deceive thee. 

1 charge thee, let no more Castalio soothe thee ; 
Avoid it, as thou wouldst preserve the peace 

Of a poor brother, to whose soul thou'rt precious. 
Mon. I will. 

Cham. Appear as cold, when next you meet, as great 
ones, 



SO U TH ERNE, 207 

When merit begs ; then shalt thou see how soon 

His heart will cool, and all his pains grow easy. [Exit. 

Mon. Yes, I will try him, torture him severely; 
For, O, Castalio, thou tco much hast wronged me, 
In leaving me to Poly do re's ill usage. 
He comes ; and now, for once, O Love, stand neuter, 
Whilst a hard part's performed ; for I must tempt, 
Wound his sofc nature, though my heart aches for't. 



CI)O)Ha0 SoutI)cnu\ 

ISABELLA; OR, THE FATAL MA1RIAGE, 

sabella, supposing her Husband, Biron, was killed at the Siege of 
Candy, and reduced to extreme Poverty, consents to marry Villeroy. 
Shortly after her second Marriage, Biron arrives, the news of his 
Death being false. He seeks Isabella, not knowing her Union with 
Villeroy, and, not wishing to alarm her, first sends a Ring by Isa- 
bella's Nurse, feigning to be a Messenger from her late Husband. 

Isabella, Nurse, Biron. 

Enter Isabella. 

Is a. I've heard of witches, magic spells, and charms, 
That have made Nature start from her old course : 
The sun has been eclipsed, the moon brought down 
From her career, still paler, and subdued 
To the abuses of this under world ; 
Now I believe all possible. This ring, 
This little ring, with necromantic force, 
Has raised the ghost of pleasure to my fears, 
Conjured the sense of honour and of love 



2oS GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Into such shapes, they fright me from myself; 
I dare not think of them 

Enter Nurse. 

Nurse. Madam, the gentleman's below. 

ha. I had forgot ; pray let me speak with him. 

[Exit Nurse. 
This ring was the first present of my love 
To Biron, my first husband : I must blush 
To think I have a second. Biron died 
(Still to my loss) at Candy ; there's my hope. 
Oh, do I live to hope, that he died there ? 
It must be so ; he's dead, and this ring left, 
By his last breath, to some known faithful friend, 
To bring me back again ; 
That's all I have to trust to 

Enter Biron.- [Isabella looking at him,] 

My fears were woman's- — I have viewed him all ; 
And let me, let me say it to myself, 
I live again, and rise but from his tomb. 

Bir. Have you forgot me quite ? 

Is a. Forgot you ! 

Bir. Then farewell my disguise, and my misfortunes : 
My Isabella ! [He goes to her; she shrieks, and faints. 

Isa. Ha! 

Bir. Oh, come again ! 
Thy Biron summons thee to life and love ; 

Thy once loved, ever-loving husband calls 

Thy Biron speaks to thee. 

Isa. My husband ! Biron ! 

Bir. Excess of love and joy, for my return, 



S UTHERNE. 209 

Has overpowered her 1 was to blame 

To take thy sex's softness unprepared : 
But sinking thus, thus dying in my arms, 
This ecstasy has made my welcome more 
Than words could say. 

ha. Where have I been ? why do you keep him from me ? 
I know his voice : my life, upon the wing, 
Hears the soft lute that brings me back again, 
'Tis he himself, my Biron ! 
If I must fall, death's welcome in these arms. 

Bir. Live ever in these arms. 

ha. But pardon me, 
Exxuse the wild disorder of my soul ; 
The joy, the strange, surprising joy, of seeing you, 

Of seeing you again, distracted me 

What hand of Providence has brought you back 

To your own home again ? 

O, tell me all, 

For every thought confounds me. 

Bir. My best life ! at leisure, all. 

ha. We thought you dead ; killed at the siege of Candy. 

Bir. There I fell among the dead ; 
But hopes of life reviving, from my wounds, 
I was preserved, but to be made a slave ; 
I often writ to my hard father, but never had 
An answer ; I writ to thee too 

ha. What a world of woe 
Had been prevented but in hearing from you ! 

Bir. Alas ! thou couldst not help me. 

ha. You do not know how much I could have done ; 
At least I'm sure I could have suffered all ; 
I would have sold myself to slavery, 



2iO GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Without redemption ; given up my child. 
The dearest part of me to basest wants — 

Bir. My little boy ! 

Isa. My life ! but to have heard 
You were alive — 

Bir. No more, my love-; complaining of the past, 
We lose the present joy. 'Tis over price 
Of all my pains, that thus we meet again ; 
I have a thousand things to say to thee- 

Isa. Would I were past the hearing ! [Aside, 

Bir. How does my child, my boy, my father, too ? 
I hear he's living still. 

Isa. Well, both ; both well ; 
And may he prove a father to your hopes, 
Though we have found him none. 

Bir. Come, no more tears. 

Isa. Seven long years of sorrow for your loss 
Have mourned with me 

Bir. And all my days behind 
Shall be employed in a kind recompense 
For thy afflictions — Can't I see my boy ? 

Isa. He's gone to-bed ; I'll have him brought to you. 

Bir. To-morrow I shall see him ; I want rest 
Myself, after this weary pilgrimage. 

Isa. Alas ! what shall I get for you ? 

Bir. Nothing but rest, my love ! To-night I would not 
Be known, if possible, to your family : 
I see my nurse is with you ; her welcome 
Would be tedious at this time; 
To-morrow will do better. 

Isa. I'll dispose of her, and order every thing 
As you would have it. [Exit. 



S OUT HER XL'. 21 l 

Bir. Grant me but life, good Heaven ! and give the means 
To make this wondrous goodness some amends, 
And let me then forget her, if I can ! 

! she deserves of me much more than I 
Can lose for her, though I again could venture 
A father, and his fortune, for her love ! 

You wretched fathers, blind as fortune all ! 
Not to perceive, that such a woman's worth 
Weighs down the portions you provide your sons : 
What is your trash, what all your heaps of gold, 
Compared to this, my heart-felt happiness ? — 
What has she, in my absence, undergone ! 

1 must not think of that ; it drives me back 
Upon myself, the fatal cause of all. 

Enter Isabella. 

Is a. I have obeyed your pleasure ; 
Every thing is ready for you. 

Bir. I can want nothing here : possessing thee, 
All my desires are carried to their aim 
Of happiness : there's no room for a wish, 
But to continue still this blessing to me : 
I know the way, my love. I shall sleep sound. 

Is a. Shall I attend you ? 

Bir. By no means : 
I've been so long a slave to others' pride, 
To learn, at least, to wait upon myself; 
You'll make haste after 

Isa, I'll but say my prayers, and follow you — 
My prayers ! no, I must never pray again. [Exit Biron. 
Prayers have their blessings, to reward our hopes ; 
But I have nothing left to hope for more. 



212 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

O Biron, hadst thou come bat one day sooner ! [Weeping. 

- What's to be done — for something must be done. 

Two husbands ! yet not one ! married to both, 

And yet a wife to neither ! Hold my brain 

Ha ! a lucky thought 

Works the right way to rid me of them all ; 

All the reproaches, infamies, and scorns, 

That every tongue and finger will find for me. 

Let the just horror of my apprehensions 

But keep me warm — no matter what can come. 

'Tis but a blow — yet will I see him first — - 

Have a last look, to heighten my despair, 

And then to rest forever. 

Biron meets her. 

Bir. Despair and rest forever ! Isabella, 
These words are far from thy condition ; 
And be they ever so. I heard thy voice, 
And could not bear thy absence ; come, my love ! 
You have stayed long, there's nothing, nothing sure, 
Now to despair of in succeeding fate. 

ha. I am contented to be miserable, 
But not this way : I've been too long abused, 
And can believe no more. 
Let me sleep on, to be deceived no more. 

Bir. Look up, my love, I never did deceive thee, 
Nor ever can ; believe thyself, thy eyes, 
That first inflamed and lit me to my love, 
Those stars, that still must guide me to my joys. 

ha. And me to my undoing : I look round, 
And find no path but leading to the grave. 

Bir. I cannot understand thee. 



SOUTHERNE. 213 

ha. If marriages 
Are made in heaven, they should be happie, 
Why was I made this wretch ? 

Bir, Has marriage made thee wretched ? 

ha. Miserable, beyond the reach of comfort. 

Bir, Do I live to hear thee say so ? 

ha. Why what, did I say ? 

Bir, That I have made thee miserable. 

ha. No : you are my only earthly happiness : 
And my false tongue belied my honest heart, 
If it said otherwise. 

Bir, And yet you said, 
Your marriage made you miserable. 

ha. I know not what I said : 
Pve said too much, unless I could speak all. 

Bir. Thy words are wild ; my eyes, my ears, my heart, 
Were all so full of thee, so much employed 
In wonder of thy charms, I could not find it ; 
Now I perceive it plain 

ha. You'll tell nobody 

Bir. Thou art not well. 

ha. Indeed I am not ; I knew that before ; 
But where's the remedy ? 

Bir, Rest will relieve thy cares : come, come, no more ; 
I'll banish sorrow from thee. 

ha. Banish first the cause. 

Bir. Heaven knows how willingly. 

ha. You are the only cause. 

Bir, Am I the cause ? the cause of thy misfortunes ? 

ha. The fatal innocent cause of all my woes. 

Bir, Is this my welcome home ? This the reward 
Of all my miseries, long labours, pains, 



214 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

And pining wants of wretched slavery, 
Which I've outlived, only in hopes of thee ? 
Am I thus paid at last for deathless love, 
And called the cause of thy misfortune now ? 

ha. Inquire no more : 'twill be explained too soon. 

Bir. What ! canst thou leave me too ? [Going off. 

ha. Pray let me go : 
For both our sakes, permit me 

Bir: Rack me not with imaginations 

Of things impossible -Thou canst not mean 

What thou hast said — -Yet something she must mean. 
— 'Twas madness all — Compose thyself, my love ; 
The fit is past ; all may be well again : 
Let us to bed. 

ha. To bed ! You've raised the storm 
Will sever us forever* 
The rugged hand of fate has got between 
Our meeting hearts, and thrusts them from their joys. 

Bir. Nothing shall ever part us. 

ha. Oh ! there's a fatal story to be told ; 
Be deaf to that, as Heaven has been to me ! 
When thou shalt hear how much thou hast been wronged, 
How wilt .thou curse thy fond believing heart, 
Tear me from the warm bosom of thy love, 
And throw me like a poisonous weed away ! 
When I am dead, forgive and pity me. [Exit. 

Bir. What can she mean ? These doubtings will distract me. 
Some hidden mischief soon will burst to light ; 

I cannot bear it 1 must be satisfied 

'Tis she, my wife, must clear this darkness to me. 

She shall — if the sad tale at last must come ! 

She is my fate, and best can speak my doom. [Exit. 



SOUTHERNS. 215 



OROONOKO. 

Oroonoko, an African Prince, is entrapped by Slave-deal^ rj a 

ried to Surinam, then in possession of the English. He is sold to the 
Governcr of the Island, and there he finds his Wife Imoinda, also a 
Slave, exposed to the unlawful solicitations of the Governor. Insti- 
gated by the sense of his wrongs, he joins a Conspiracy of the Slaves 
on the Island, which has been organised by Aboan, his Friend and 
Countryman. The Slaves rise, led on by Oroonoko and Aboan, but 
are overpowered by the Authorities. Oroonoko and Aboan are 
captured, and brutally punished. Imoinda is secured by the Gov- 
ernor, when the following Scene ends the Tragedy. 

Oroonoko. 

Oro. To honour bound ! and yet a slave to love \ 
I am distracted by their rival powers, 
And both will be obeyed. O great Revenge ! 
Thou raiser and restorer of fall'n fame ! 
Let me not be unworthy of thy aid, 
For stopping in thy course. I still am thine ; 
But can't forget I am Imoinda's too. 
She calls me from my wrongs to rescue her. 
No man condemn me, who has never felt 
A woman's power, or tried the force of love ; 
To run his glorious race of light anew, 
And carry on the world. Love, love will be 
My first ambition, and my fame the next. 

Enter Aboan, bloody. 

My eyes are turned against me, and combine 
With my sworn enemies, to represent 
This spectacle of horror. Aboan ! 
Aboan. I have no name 
10* 



216 G OLDEN LEAVES. 

That can distinguish me from the vile earth, 
To which I'm going : a poor abject worm, 
That crawled awhile upon the bustling world, 
And now am trampled to my dust again. 

Oro. I see thee gashed and mangled ! 

/lboan. Spare my shame, 
To tell how they have used me ; but believe, 
The hangman's hand would have been merciful. 
Do not you scorn me, Sir, to think I can 
Intend to live under this infamy ? 
I do not come for pity, to complain. 
I've spent an honourable life with you ; 
The earliest servant of your rising fame, 
And would attend it with my latest care : 
My life was yours, and so shall be my death. 
You must not live ; 

Bending and sinking, I have dragged my steps 
Thus far, to tell you that you cannot live : 
To warn you of those ignominious wrongs, 
Whips, rods, and all the instruments of death, 
Which I have felt, and are prepared for you. 
This was the duty that I had to pay. 
'Tis done, and now I beg to be discharged. 

Oro. What shall I do for thee ? 

Aboan. My body tires, 
And wo'not bear me off to liberty : 
I shall again be taken, made a slave. 
A sword, a dagger, yet would rescue me. 
I have not strength to go and find out death, 
You must direct him to me. 

Oro. Here he is, [Gives him a dagger. 

The only present I can make thee now; 



SOUTH ERNE. 217 

And, next the honourable means of life, 
I would bestow the honest means of death. 

Aboan. I cannot stay to thank you. If there is 
A being after this, I shall be yours 
In the next world, your faithfal slave again. 
This is to try. [Stabs himself.'] I had a living sense 
Of all your royal favours, but this last 
Strikes through my heart. I wo'not say farewell, 
For you must follow me. [Dies. 

Oro. In life and death, 
The guardian of my honour ! Follow thee ? 
I should have gone before thee : then perhaps 
Thy fate had been prevented. All his care 
Was to preserve me from the barbarous rage 
That worried him, only for being mine. 
Why, why, ye gods ! why am I so accursed, 
That it must be a reason of your wrath, 
A guilt, a crime sufficient to the fate 
Of any one, but to belong to me ? 
My friend has found it out, and my wife will soon : 
My wife ! the very fear's too much for life. 
I can't support it. Where's Imoinda ? Oh ? 

[Going out, he meets Imoinda, who runs into his arms. 
Thou bosom softness ! Down of all my cares ! 
I could recline my thoughts upon this breast 
To a forgetfulness of all my griefs, 
And yet be happy : but it wo'not be. 
Thou art disordered, pale, and out of breath ! 
If fate pursue thee, find a shelter here. 
What is it thou wouldst tell me ? 

Imo. 'Tis in vain to call him villain. 

Oro. Call him governor : is it not so ? 



2l8 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Imo. There's not another, sure. 

Oro. Villain's the common name of mankind here, 
But his most properly. What I what of him ? 
I fear to be resolved, and must inquire. 
He had thee in his power. 

Imo. I blush to think it. 

Oro. Blush ! to think what ? 

Imo. That I was in his power. 

Oro. He could not use it ? 

Imo. What can't such men do ? 

Oro. What did he? durst he? 

Imo. What he could he dared. 

Oro. His own gods damn him then ! For ours have none, 
No punishment for such unheard-of crime. 

Imo. This monster, cunning in his flatteries, 
When he had weaned all his useless arts, 
Leaped out, fierce as a beast of prey, to seize me. 
I trembled, feared. 

Oro. I fear and tremble now. 
What could preserve thee ? What deliver thee ? 

Imo. That worthy man you used to call your friend — 

Oro. Blandford? 

Imo. Came in, and saved me from his rage. 

Oro. He was a friend indeed to rescue thee ! 
And, for his sake, I'll think it possible 
A Christian may be yet an honest man. 

Imo. O did you know what I have struggled through, 
To save me yours, sure you would promise me 
Never to see me forced from you again. 

Oro. To promise thee ! O ! do I need to promise ? 
But there is now no further use of words, 
Death is security for all our fears. 



SO UTHERNE. 219 

[Shows Aboan's body on the floor. 
And yet I cannot trust him. 

Imo. Aboan ! 

Oro. Mangled and torn, resolved to give me time 
To fit myself for what I must expect, 
Groaned out a warning to me, and expired. 

Imo, For what you must expect? 

Oro. Would that were all. 

Imo. What, to be butchered thus 

Oro. Just as thou seest. 

Imo. By barb'rous hands to fall at last their prey ? 

Oro. I have run the race with honour, shall I now 
Lag, and be overtaken at the goal ? 

Imo. No. 

Oro. I must look back to thee. [ Tenderly. 

Imo. You sha'not need. 
I am always present to your purpose ; say, 
Which way would you dispose me ? 
This dagger will instruct you. [ Gives it to him. 

Oro. Ha ! this dagger ! 
Like fate, it points me to the horrid deed. 

Imo, Strike, strike it home, and bravely save us both. 
There is no other safety. 

Oro. It must be 

But first a dying kiss [Kisses her. 

This last embrace [Embraces her. 

And now 

Imo. I'm ready. 

Oro. O, where shall I strike ? 
Is there the smallest grain of that loved body 
That is not dearer to me than my eyes, 
My bosomed heart, and all the life-blood there ? 



220 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Bid me cut off these limbs, hew off these hands, 
Dig out these eyes, though I would keep them last 
To gaze upon thee : but to murder thee ! 
The joy and charm of every ravished sense, 
My wife ! forbid it, nature. 

Imo. 'Tis your wife, 
Who on her knees conjures you. O ! in time, 
Prevent those mischiefs that are falling on us. 
You may be hurried to a shameful death, 
And I too dragged to the vile governor ; 
Then I may cry aloud. When you are gone, 
Where shall I find a friend again to save me ? 

Oro. It will be so. Thou unexampled virtue ! 
Thy resolution has recovered mine : 
And now prepare thee. 

Imo. Thus, with open arms, 
I welcome you and death. 

[He drops the dagger as he looks on her, 
and throws himself on the ground. 

Oro. I cannot bear it. 
O let me dash against the rock of fate, 
Dig up this earth, and tear her bowels out, 
To make a grave, deep as the centre down, 
To swallow wide and bury us together ! 
It wo'not be. O ! chen some pitying god 
(If there be one a friend to innocence) 
Find yet a way to lay her beauties down 
Gently in death, and save me from her blood. 

Imo. O rise, 'tis more than death to see you thus. 
I'll ease your love, and do the deed myself — 

[She takes up the dagger ; he rises in haste 
to take it from her. 



SOUTHERNE. 221 

Oro. O, hold ! I charge thee, hold ! 

Imo. Though I must own 
It would be nobler for us both, from you. 

Oro. O ! for a whirlwind's wing to hurry us 
To yonder cliff, which frowns upon the flood ; 
That in embraces locked we might plunge in, 
And perish thus in one another's arms. 

Imo. Alas ! what shout is that ? 

Oro. I see 'em coming. 
They sha'not overtake us. This last kiss, 
And now farewell. 

Imo. Farewell, farewell forever ! 

Oro. I'll turn my face away, and do it so. 
Now, are you ready ? 

Imo. Now. But do not grudge me 
The pleasure, in my death, of a last look ; 
Pray look upon me. — Now I'm satisfied. 

Oro. So fate must be by this. 

[Going to stab her, he stops short ; she lays 
her hand on his, in order to give the blow. 

Imo. Nay, then I must assist you. 
And since it is the common cause of both, 
'Tis just that both should be employed in it. 
Thus, thus 'tis finished, and I bless my fate, [Stabs herself. 
That, where I lived, I die in these loved arms. [Dies. 

Oro. She's gone. And now all's at an end with me. 
Soft, lay her down : O we will part no more. 

[Throws himself by her. 
But let me pay the tribute of my grie£ 
A few sad tears to thy loved memory, 

And then I follow [Shouts : weeps over her. 

But I stay too long. [A noise again. 



222 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

The noise comes nearer. Hold, before I go, 

There's something would be done. It shall be so, 

And then, Imoinda, I'll come all to thee. [Rises. 

Enter Blandford and his party, before the Lieutenant- 
Governor and his party. ' Swords drawn on both sides. 

Lieut. You strive in vain to save him, he shall die. 

Bland. Not while we can defend him with our lives. 

Lieut. Where is he ? 

Oro. Here is the wretch whom you would have. 
Put up your swords, and let not civil broils 
Engage you in the cursed cause of one 
Who cannot live, and now entreats to die. 
This object will convince you. 

Bland. 'Tis his wife. [ They gather about the body. 

Alas ! there was no other remedy. 

Lieut. Who did the bloody deed ? 

Oro. The deed was mine : 
Bloody I know it is, and I expect 
Your laws should tell me so. Thus, self-condemned, 
I do resign myself into your hands, 

The hands of justice But I hold the sword 

For you and for myself. 

[Stabs the Governor and himself, then 
throzvs himself by Imoinda's body. 
'Tis as it should be now, I have sent his ghost 
To be a witness of that happiness 
In the next world, which he denied us here. [Dies. 

Bland. I hope there is a place of happiness 
In the next world for such exalted virtue. 
Pagan or unbeliever, yet he lived 
To all he knew : and, if he went astray, 



R WE 



There's mercy still above to set him right. 

But Christians, guided by the heavenly ray, 

Have no excuse if they mistake their way. [Exeunt. 



3>TicI>olasr Howe. 

TAMERLANE. 



Tamerlane overthrows Bajazet, the Turkish Sultan, and takes him 
Prisoner. In the Characters of Tamerlane and Bajazet, Rowe 
professed to draw the Characters of William III. and Louis XIV. 

Scene II. — The inside of a magnificent Tent. Symphony 
of warlike Music. Enter Tamerlane, Axalla, Prince 
^Tanais, Zama, Mirvan, Soldiers, and other Attend- 
ants. 

Ax. From this auspicious day the Pafthian name 
Shall date its birth of empire, and extend 
Even from the dawning east to utmost Thu'e 
The limits of its sway. 

Pr. Nations unknown, 
Where yet the Roman eagles never flew, 
Shall pay their homage to victorious Tamerlane ; 
Bend to his valour and superior virtue, 
And own that conquest is not given by chance, 
But, bound by fatal and resistless merit, 
Waits on his arms. 

Tarn. It is too much : you dress me 
Like an asurp:r, in the borrowed attributes 
Of injured Heaven. Can we call conquest ours? 
Shall man, this pigmy, with a giant's pride, 



224 GOLDEN LEAVES- 

Vaunt of himself, and say, Thus have I done this ? 
Oh, vain pretence to greatness ! Like the moon, 
We borrow all the brightness which we boast, 
Dark in ourselves, and useless. If that hand, 
That rules the fate of battles, strike for us, 
Crown us with fame, and gild our clay with honour, 
'Twere most ungrateful to disown the benefit, 
And arrogate a praise which is not ours. 

Ax. With such unshaken temper of the soul 
To bear the swelling tide of prosperous fortune, 
Is to deserve that fortune : in adversity 
The mind grows tough by buffeting the tempest, 
Which, in success dissolving, sinks to ease, 
And loses all her firmness. 

Tarn. Oh, Axalla ! 
Could I forget I am a man as thou art, 
Would not the winter's cold or summer's heat, 
Sickness or thirst, and hunger, all the train 
Of Nature's clamorous appetites, asserting 
An equal right in kings and common men, 
Reprove me daily ? — No — If I boast of aught, 
Be it to have been Heaven's happy instrument, 
The means of good to all my fellow-creatures : 
This is a king's best praise. 

Enter Omar. 

Om. Honour and fame [Bowing to Tamerlane 

Forever wait the emperor : may our prophet 
Give him ten thousand thousand days of life, 
And every day like this. The captive sultan, 
Fierce in his bonds, and at his fate repining, 
Attends your sacred will. 



BO WE. 225 

Tarn. Let him approach. 

Enter Bajazet, and other Turkish Prisoners in chains, 
with a Guard of Soldiers. 

When I survey the ruins of this field, 

The wild destruction which thy fierce ambition 

Has dealt among mankind (so many widows 

And helpless orphans has thy battle made, 

That half our eastern world this day are mourners), 

Well may I, in behalf of heaven and earth, 

Demand from thee atonement for this wrong. 

Baj. Make thy demand to those that own thy power ; 
Know, I am still beyond it ; and though fortune 
(Curse on that changeling deity of fools !) 
Has stripped me of the train and pomp of greatness, 
That outside of a king, yet still my soul, 
Fixed high, and of itself alone dependent, 
Is ever free and royal, and even now, ' 
As at the head of battle, does defy thee : 
I know what power the chance of war has given, 
And dare thee to the use on't. This vile speeching, 
This after-game of words, is what most irks me ; 

Spare that, and for the rest 'tis equal all 

Be it as it may. 

Tarn. Well was it for the world, 
When on their borders neighbouring princes met, 
Frequent in friendly parle, by cool debates 
Preventing wasteful war : such should our meeting 
Have been, hadst thou but held in just regard 
The sanctity of leagues so often sworn to. 
Canst thou believe thy Prophet, or, what's more, 
That Power supreme, which made thee and thy Prophet, 



226 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Will, with impunity, let pass that breach 
Of sacred faith given to the royal Greek ? 

Baj. Thou pedant talker ! ha ! art thou a king 
Possessed of sacred power, Heaven's darling attribute, 
And dost thou prate of leagues, and oaths, and prophets ! 
I hate the Greek (perdition on his name !) 
As I do thee, and would have met you both 
As death does human nature, for destruction. 

Tarn. Causeless to hate, is not of human kind : 
The savage brute, that haunts in woods remote 
And desert wilds, tears not the fearful traveller, 
If hunger, or some injury, provoke not. 

Baj. Can a king want cause, when empire bids 
Go on? What is he born for, but ambition? 
It is his hunger, 'tis his call of nature, 
The noble appetite which will be satisfied, 
And, like the food of gods, makes him immortal. 

Tarn. Henceforth I will not wonder we were foes, 
Since souls that differ so by nature, hate 
And strong antipathy forbid their union. 

Baj. The noble fire that warms me, does indeed 
Transcend thy coldness. I am pleased we differ, 
Nor think alike. 

Tarn. No — for I think like man, 
Thou like a monster, from whose baleful presence 
Nature starts back ; and though she fixed her stamp 
On thy rough mass, and marked thee for a man, 
Now, conscious of her error, she disclaims thee, 

As formed for her destruction. 

'Tis true, I am a king, as thou hast been ; 
Honour and glory too have been my aim ; 
But though I dare face death, and all the dangers 






R WE. 227 

Which furious war wears in its bloody front, 
Yet would I choose to fix my name by peace, 
By justice, and by mercy ; and to raise 
My trophies on the blessings of mankind. 
Nor would I buy the empire of the world 
With ruin of the people whom I sway, 
On forfeit of my honour. 

Baj. Prophet, I thank thee. 

Damnation ! — Couldst thou rob me of my glory, 
To dress up this tame king, this preaching dervis ? 
Unfit for war, thou shouldst have lived secure 
In lazy peace, and with debating senates 
Shared a precarious sceptre ; sat tamely still, 
And let bold factions canton out thy power, 
And wrangle for the spoils they robbed thee of; 
Whilst I (curse on the power that stops my ardour !) 
Would, like a tempest, rush amidst the nations, 
Be greatly terrible, and deal, like Allah, 
My angry thunder on the frighted world. 

Tarn. The world ! — 'twould be too little for thy pride ; 
Thou wouldst scale heaven 

Baj. I would : — Away ! my soul 
Disdains thy conference. 

Tarn. Thou vain, rash thing, 
That, with gigantic insolence, hast dared 
To lift thy wretched self above the stars, 
And mate with power Almighty : Thou art fallen ! 

Baj. 'Tis false ! I am not fallen from aught I have been : 
At least my soul resolves to keep her state, 
And scorns to take acquaintance with ill fortune. 

Tarn. Almost beneath my pity art thou fallen ; 
Since, while th' avenging hand of Heaven is on thee, 



228 G OLDEN LEAV E S. 

And presses to the dust thy swelling soul, 
Fool-hardy, with the stronger thou contendesr. 
To what vast heights had thy tumultuous temper 
Been hurried, if success had crowned thy wishes : 
Say, what had I to expect, if thou hadst conquered ? 

Baj. Oh, glorious thought ! By Heaven I will enjoy i:; 
Though but in fancy, imagination shall 
Make room to entertain the vast idea. 
Oh ! had I been the master but of yesterday, 
The world, the world had felt me; and for thee, 
I had used thee as thou art to me — a dog, 
The object of my scorn and mortal hatred : 
I would have taught thy neck to know my weight, 
And mounted from that footstool to my saddle : 
Then, when thy daily servile task was done, 
I would have caged thee, for the scorn of slaves, 
Till thou hadst begged to die ; and even that mercy 
I had denied thee. Now thou know'st my mind, 
And question me no further. 

Tarn, Well dost thou teach me 
What justice should exact from thee. Mankind, 
With one consent, cry out for vengeance on thee : 
Loudly they call to cut off this league-breaker, 
This wild destroyer, from the face of earth. 

Baj. Do it, and rid thy shaken soul at once 
Of its worst fear. 

Tarn. Why slept the thunder 
That should have armed the idol deity, 
And given thee power, ere yester sun was set, 
To shake the soul of Tamerlane. Hadst thou an arm 
To make thee feared, thou shouldst have proved it on me, 
Amidst the sweat and blood of yonder field, 



R WE. 229 

When through the tumult of the war I sought thee, 
Fenced in with nations. 

Baj. Curse upon the stars 
That fated us to different scenes of slaughter ! 
Oh ! could my sword have met thee ! 

Tarn, Thou hadst then, 
As now, been in my power, and held thy life 
Dependent on my gift — Yes, Bajazet, 
I bid thee live. — So much my soul disdains 
That thou shouldst think I can fear aught but Heaven : 
Nay more ; couldst thou forget thy brutal fierceness, 
And form thyself to manhood, I would bid thee 
Live, and be still a king, that thou mayst learn 
What man should be to man, in war remembering 
The common tie and brotherhood of kind. 
This royal tent, with such of thy domestics 
As can be found, shall wait upon thy service ; 
Nor will I use my fortune to demand 
Hard terms of peace, but such as thou mayst offer 
With honour, I with honour may receive. 

[Tamerlane makes signs to an Officer ', 
who unbinds Bajazet. 

Baj. Ha ! sayest thou — no — our Prophet's vengeance 
blast me, 
If thou shalt buy my friendship with thy empire. 
Damnation on thee ! thou smooth fawning talker ! 
Give me again my chains, that I may curse thee, 
And gratify my rage : or, if thou wilt 
Be a vain fool, and play with thy perdition, 
Remember Fm thy foe, and hate thee deadly. 
Thy folly on thy head ! 

Tarn. Be still my foe. 



230 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Great minds, like Heaven, are pleased in doing good, 

Though the ungrateful subjects of their favours 

Are barren in return : thy stubborn pride, 

That spurns the gentle office of humanity, 

Shall in my honour own, and thy despite, 

I have done as I ought. Virtue still does 

With scorn the mercenary world regard, 

Where abject souls do good, and hope reward : 

Above the worthless trophies men can raise, 

She seeks not honours, wealth, nor airy praise, 

But with herself, herself the goddess pays. 

[Exeunt Tamerlane, Axalla, Prince of Tanais, 
Mirvan, Zama, and Attendants, 
Baj. Come, lead me to my dungeon; plunge me down 
Deep from the hated sight of man and day, 
Where, under covert of the friendly darkness, 
My soul may brood at leisure o'er its anguish. 



JANE SHORE. 

Jane Shore, after the death of her Royal Lover, Edward IV., is 

doomed by the Duke of Gloster to death by Starvation. In her las* 
moments she is found by her Husband and his Friend Belmour. 

A Street. — Enter Jane Shore, her hair hanging loose on 
her shoulders, and barefooted. 

Jane S. Yet, yet endure, nor murmur, O my soul ! 
For are not thy transgressions great and numberless ? 
Do they not cover thee like rising floods, 
And press thee like a weight of waters down ? 
Wait then with patience, till the circling hours 



BO WE. 231 

Shall bring the time of thy appointed rest, 

And lay thee down in death. 

And hark ! methinks the roar, that late pursued me, 

Sinks like the murmurs of a falling wind, 

And softens into silence. Does revenge 

And malice then grow weary and forsake me ? 

My guard, too, that observed me still so close, 

Tire in the task of their inhuman office, 

And loiter far behind. Alas ! I faint, 

My spirits fail at once — 

•> 5JC *•£ 5jC J- t < ^jC 

Sure I am near upon my journey's end ; 

My head runs round, my eyes begin to fail, 

And dancing shadows swim before my sight. 

I can no more [Lies dozun.~\ ; receive me, thou cold earth ; 

Thou common parent, take me to thy bosom, 

And let me rest with thee. 

Enter Belmour. 

Bel. Upon the ground ! 
Thy miseries can never lay thee lower. 
Look up, thou poor afflicted one ! thou mourner, 
Whom none has comforted ! where are thy friends, 
The dear companions of thy joyful days, 
Whose hearts thy warm prosperity made glad, 
Whose arms were taught to grow like ivy round thee, 
And bind thee to their bosoms ? Thus, with thee, 
Thus let us live, and let us die, they said. 
Now where are they ? 

Jane S. Ah, Belmour ! where, indeed? They stand aloof, 
And view my desolation from afar ! 
And yet thy goodness turns aside to pity me. 
Alas ! there may be danger ; get thee gone. 



232 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Let me not pull a ruin on thy head. 
Leave me to die alone, for I am fallen 
Never to rise, and all relief is vain. 

Bel. Yet raise thy drooping head ; for I am come 
To chase away despair. Behold ! where yonder 
That honest man, that faithful, brave Dumont, 
Is hasting to thy aid — [looking about. 

Jane S. Dumont ? Ha ! where ? [Raising herself, and 
Then Heaven has heard my prayer ; his very name 
Renews the springs of life, and cheers my soul. 
Has he then 'scaped the snare ? 

Bel. He has; but see 

He comes, unlike to that Dumont you knew, 
For now he wears your better angel's form, 
And comes to visit you with peace and pardon. 

Enter Shore. 

Jane S. Speak, tell me ! Which is he ? And oh ! what 
would 
This dreadful vision ! See, it comes upon me — 
It is my husband Ah ! [She swoons. 

Shore. She faints ! support her ! 

Bel. Her weakness could not bear the strong surprise. 
But see, she stirs ! And the returning blood 
Faintly begins to blush again, and kindle 
Upon her ashy cheek — 

Shore. So — gently raise her — [Raising her tip. 

Jane S. Ha ! what art thou ? Belmour ! 

Bel. How fare you, lady ? 

Jane S. My heart is thrilled with horror — 

Bel. Be of courage — 
Your husband lives ! 'tis he, my worthiest friend — 






BO WE. 233 

Jane S. Still art thou there ! — Still dost thou hover 
round me ! 
Oh, save me, Belmour, from his angry shade ! 

Bel. 'Tis he himself! he lives ! look up — 

Jane S. I dare not ! 
Oh ! that my eyes could shut him out forever — 

Shore. Am I so hateful then, so deadly to thee, 
To blast thy eyes with horror ? Since I'm grown 
A burden to the world, myself, and thee, 
Would I had ne'er survived to see thee more. 

Jane S. O, thou most injured ! — dost thou live, indeed ? 
Fall then, ye mountains, on my guilty head ; 
Hide me, ye rocks, within your secret caverns ; 
Cast thy black veil upon my shame, O night ! 
And shield me with thy sable wing forever. 

Shore. Why dost thou turn away? Why tremble thus ? 

Why thus indulge thy fears ? and, in despair, 

Abandon thy distracted soul to horror ? . 

Cast every black and guilty thought behind thee, 

And let 'em never vex thy quiet more. 

My arms, my heart, are open to receive thee, 

To bring thee back to thy forsaken home, 

With tender joy, with fond forgiving love. 

Let us haste, 

Now while occasion seems to smile upon us, 

Forsake this place of shame, and find a shelter. 

Jane S. What shall I say to you ? But I obey — 

Shore. Lean on my arm 

Jane S. Alas ! I'm wondrous faint : 
But that's not strange, I have not eat these three days. 

Shore. Oh, merciless ! 

Jane S. Oh, I am sick at heart ! 



234 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Shore. Thou murd'rous sorrow ! 
Wo't thou still drink her blood, pursue her still ? 
Must she then die ? O my poor penitent ! 
Speak peace to thy sad heart ; she hears me not ? 
Grief masters every sense. 

Enter Catesby, with a Guard. 

Cates. Seize on 'em both, as traitors to the State — 

Bel. What means this violence ? [ Guards lay hold on 

Cates. Have we not found you, [Shore and Belmour. 
In scorn of the Protector's strict command, 
Assisting this base woman, and abetting 
Her infamy ? 

Shore. Infamy on thy head ! 
Thou tool of power, thou pander to authority ! 
I tell thee, knave, thou know'st of none so virtuous, 
And she that bore thee was an Ethiop to her. 

Cates. You'll answer this at full — away with 'em. 

Shore. Is charity grown treason to your court ? 
What honest man would live beneath such rulers ? 
I am content that we should die together 

Cates. Convey the men to prison ; but, for her, 
Leave her to hunt her fortune as she may. 

Jane S. I will not part with him for me ! — for me ! 

Oh ! must he die for me ? 

[Following him as he is carried off; she falls. 

Shore. Inhuman villains ! [Breaks from the Guards. 

Stand off! the agonies of death are on her 

She pulls, she gripes me hard with her cold hand. 

Jane S. Was this blow wanting to complete my ruin ? 
Oh ! let me go, ye ministers of terror. 
He shall offend no more, for I will die, 



R WE. 235 

And yield obedience to your cruel master. 
Tarry a little, but a little longer, 
And take my last breath with you. 

Shore. Oh, my love ! 
Why dost thou fix thy dying eyes upon me, 
With such an earnest, such a piteous look, 
As if thy heart were fall of some sad meaning 
Thou could'st not speak ? 

Jfane S. Forgive me ! but forgive me ! 

Shore. Be witness for me, ye celestial hosts, 
Such mercy and such pardon as my soul 
Accords to thee, and begs of Heaven to show thee ; 
May such befall me at my latest hour, 
And make my portion blest or curst forever. 

Jane S. Then all is well, and I shall sleep in peace — 

'Tis very dark, and I have lost you now 

Was there not something I would have bequeathed you ? 

But I have nothing left me to bestow, < 

Nothing but one sad sigh. Oh, mercy, Heaven ! [Dies. 

Bel. There fled the soul, 
And left her load of misery behind. 

Shore. Oh, heavy hour ! 

Fare thee well [Kissing her. 

Now execute your tyrant's will, and lead me 
To bonds or death, 'tis equally indifferent. 

Bel. Let those who view this sad example, know 
What fate attends the broken marriage vow ; 
And teach their children, in succeeding times, 
No common vengeance waits upon these crimes, 
When such severe repentance could not save 
From want, from shame, and an untimely grave. 

[ The curtain descends slowly to music. 



236 G OLDEN LEA VES. 

THE FAIR PENITENT. 

Calista, Daughter o/'Sciolto, is betrayed by Lothario. Her Father, 
unconscious of her shame, forces her to marry Altamont, ivho after- 
ivards discovers the faithlessness of his Wife, and kills her Seducer. 

A Room hung with black. On one side, Lothario's 
body on a bier ; on the other, a table, with a skull and 
other bones, a book and a lamp on it. — Calista is dis- 
covered on a coach, in black ; her hair hanging loose 
and disordered. After soft music, she rises and comes 
forward. 

CaL 'Tis well ! these solemn sounds, this pomp of horror, 
Are fit to feed the frenzy in my soul. 
Here's room for meditation even to madness, 
Till the mind burst with thinking. This dull flame 
Sleeps in the socket. Sure the book was left 
To teach me something ;— for instruction, then — 
He teaches holy sorrow and contrition, 
And penitence. — Is it become an art, then ? 
A trick that lazy, dull, luxurious gownmen 
Can teach us to do over ? I'll no more on't ; 

\Thr owing away the book. 
I have more real anguish in my heart, 
Than all their pedant discipline e'er knew. 
What charnel has been rifled for these bones ? 
Fie ! this is pageantry ; — they look uncouthly. 
But what of that, if he or she that owned 'em 
Safe from disquiet sit, and smile to see 
The farce their miserable relics play ? 
But here's a sight is terrible indeed ! 
Is this that haughty, gallant, gay Lothario, 
That dear, perfidious Ah ! — how pale he looks ! 



R WE. 237 



And those dead eyes ! 
Ascend, ye ghosts, fantastic forms of night, 
In all your different dreadful shapes ascend, 
And match the present horror, if you can. . 



Enter Altamont. 

Alt. Hail to you, horrors ! hail, thou house of death ! 
And thou, the lovely mistress of these shades, 
Whose beauty gilds the more than midnight darkness, 
And makes it grateful as the dawn of day. 
Oh, take me in, a fellow-mourner with thee, 
I'll number groan for groan, and tear for tear ; 
And when the fountains of thine eyes are dry, 
Mine shall supply the stream, and weep for both. 

Cal. I know thee well, — thou art the injured Altamont; 
Thou com'st to urge me with the wrongs I've done thee. 
But know I stand upon the brink of life, 
And in a moment mean to set me free * 
From shame and thy upbraiding. 

Alt. Falsely, falsely 
Dost thou accuse me ! Oh, forbid me not 
To mourn thy loss, 

To wish some better fate had ruled our loves, 
And that Calista had been mine, and true 

CaL O Altamont ! 'tis hard for souls like mine, 
Haughty and fierce, to yield they've done amiss. 
But oh, behold f my proud, disdainful heart 
Bends to thy gentler virtue. Yes, I own, 
Such is thy truth, thy tenderness, and love, 
That, were I not abandoned to destruction, 
With thee I might have lived for ages blessed, 
And died in peace within thy faithful arms. 



238 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Enter Horatio. 

Hor. Now mourn indeed, ye miserable pair ! 
For now the measure of your woes is full. 
The great, the good Sciolto dies this moment. 

Cal. My father ! 

Alt. That's a deadly stroke, indeed. 

Hor. Not long ago, he privately went forth, 
Attended but by few, and those unbidden. 
I heard which way he took, and straight pursued him ; 
But found him compassed by Lothario's faction, 
Almost alone, amidst a crowd of foes. 
Too late we brought him aid, and drove them back : 
Ere that, his frantic valour had provoked 
The death he seemed to wish for from their swords. 

Cal. And dost thou bear me yet, thou patient Earth ? 
Dost thou not labour with thy murd'rous weight ? 
And you, ye glitt'ring, heavenly host of stars, 
Hide your fair heads in clouds, or I shall blast you ; 
For I am all contagion, death, and ruin, 
And Nature sickens at me. Rest, thou world, 
This parricide shall be thy plague no more : 
Thus, thus I set thee free. [Stabs herself 

Hor. Oh, fatal rashness ! 

Enter Sciolto, pale and bloody, supported by Servants. 

Cal. O my heart ! 
Well mayst thou fail ; for see, the spring that fed 
Thy vital stream is wasted, and runs low. 
My father ! will you now, at last^ forgive me, 
If, after all my crimes, and all your suff 'rings, 
I call you once again by that dear name ? 
Will you forget my shame, and those wide wounds ? 



C ONGREVE. 239 

Lift up your hand and bless me, ere I go 
Down to my dark abode ! 

Scu Alas, my daughter ! 
Thou hast rashly ventured in a stormy sea, 
Where life, fame, virtue, all were wrecked and lost. 
But sure thou hast borne thy part in all the anguish, 
And smarted with the pain. Then rest in peace : 
Let silence and oblivion hide thy name, 
And save thee from the malice of posterity ; 
And mayst thou find with Heaven the same forgiveness, 
As with thy father here. — Die, and be happy. 

CaL Celestial sounds ! peace dawns upon my soul, 
And every pain grows less. — O gentle Altamont ! 
Think not too hardly of me when I'm gone ; 
But pity me. Had I but early known 
Thy wondrous worth, thou excellent young man, 
We had been happier both. Now, 'tis too late ; 
And yet my eyes take pleasure to behold -thee ; 
Thou art their last dear object. — Mercy, Heaven ! [Dies. 



tDtlliam (Gxmgrew. 

THE MOURNING BRIDE. 

Almeria, Princess of Granada, is secretly married to Alphonso, Son 
of Anselmo, formerly King of Valencia, her Fathers Rival. Al- 
phonso is supposed to have been shipzurecked, but is saved, and 
lands in Tunis, ivhere, under the name o/~Osmyn, he joins the Moors. 
In an attack on Granada, he is taken Prisoner by Manuel, Father 
of Almekia. Almeria goes to the Tomb of Anselmo, to mourn het 
supposed lost Husband, zvho is also attracted to the same spot, to pay 
devotion to the memory of his Father. 



240 G OLDEN LEAVES. 

The aisle of a Cathedral. — Enter Almeria and Leonora. 

Aim. It was a fancied noise, for all is hushed. 

Leon. It bore the accent of a human voice. 

Aim. It was thy fear, or else some transient wind 
Whistling through hollows of this vaulted aisle. 
We'll listen 

Leon. Hark ! 

Aim. No, all is hushed, and still as death — 'tis dreadful ! 
How reverend is the face of this tall pile, 
Whose ancient pillars rear their marble heads, 
To bear aloft its arched and ponderous roof, 
By its own weight made steadfast and immovable, 
Looking tranquillity. It strikes an awe 
And terror on my aching sight ; the tombs 
And monumental caves of death look cold, 
And shoot a chillness to my trembling heart. 
Give me thy hand, and let me hear thy voice ; 
Nay, quickly speak to me, and let me hear 
Thy voice — my own affrights me with its echoes. 

Leon. Let us return ; the horror of this place 
And silence will increase your melancholy. 

Aim. It may my fears, but cannot add to that. 
No, I will on ; show me Anselmo's tomb, 
Lead me o'er bones and skulls and mouldering earth 
Of human bodies ; for I'll mix with them, 
Or wind me in the shroud of some pale corse 
Yet green in earth, rather than be the bride 
Of Garcia's more detested bed : ' that thought 
Exerts my spirits ; and my present fears 
Are lost in dread of greater ill. Then show me. 
Lead me, for I am bolder grown : lead on 



ON G RE YE. 24I 

Where I may kneel, and pay my vows again 

To him, to Heaven, and my Alphonso's soul. 

Leon. I go, but Heaven can tell with what regret. 

\Exeunt. 
Enter Heli. 

I wander through this maze of monuments, 

Yet cannot find him — Hark ! sure 'tis the voice 

Of one complaining — There it sounds — I'll follow it. [Exit. 

Scene opening, discovers a Place of Tombs : one Monu- 
ment fronting the view greater than the rest. 

Enter Almeria and Leonora. 

Leon. Behold the sacred vault, within whose womb 
The poor remains of good Anseimo rest, 
Yet fresh and unconsumed by time or worms : 
What do I see ? Oh, Heaven ! either my eyes 
Are false, or still the marble door remains 
Unclosed ; the iron gates, that lead to death 
Beneath, are still wide stretched upon their hinge, 
And staring on us with unfolded leaves. 

Aim. Sure 'tis the friendly yawn of death for me ; 
And that dumb mouth, significant in show, 
Invites me to the bed, where I alone 
Shall rest ; shows me the grave, where nature, weary 
And long oppressed with woes and bending cares, 
May lay the burden down, and sink in slumbers 
Of peace eternal. Death, grim death, will fold 
Me in his leaden arms, and press me close 
To his cold, clayey breast : my father then 
Will cease his tyranny ; and Garcia too 
Will fly my pale deformity with loathing. 
My soul, enlarged from its vile bonds, will mount, 



242 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

And range the starry orbs, and milky ways, 
Of that refulgent world, where I shall swim 
In liquid light, and float on seas of bliss 
To my Alphonso's soul. Oh, joy too great ! 
Oh, ecstasy of thought ! Help me, Anselmo ; 
Help me, Alphonso; take me, reach thy hand; 
To thee, to thee I call, to thee, Alphonso : 
Oh, Alphonso ! 

Osmyn ascending from the tomb. 

Osm. Who calls that wretched thing that was Alphonso ? 

Aim. Angels, and all the host of heaven, support me ! 

Osm. Whence is that voice, whose shrillness, from the 
grave, 
And growing to his father's shroud, roots up 
Alphonso ! 

Aim. Mercy ! Providence ! Oh, speak, 
Speak to it quickly, quickly; speak to me, 
Comfort me, help me, hold me, hide me, hide me, 
Leonora, in thy bosom, from the light, 
And from my eyes. 

Osm. Amazement and illusion ! 
Rivet and nail me where I stand, ye powers, 

[ Coming forward. 
That, motionless, I may be still deceived. 
Let me not stir, nor breathe, lest I dissolve 
That tender, lovely form of painted air, 
So like Almeria. Ha ! it sinks, it falls ; 
I'll catch it ere it goes, and grasp her shade. 
'Tis life ! 'tis warm ! 'tis she, 'tis she herself! 
Nor dead, nor shade, but breathing and alive ! 
It is Almeria, 'tis my wife ! 



C ONGREVE. 243 



Enter Helt. 



Leon. Alas ! she stirs not yet, nor lifts her eyes ; 

He too is fainting Help me, help me, stranger, 

Whoe'er thou art, and lend thy hand to raise 
These bodies. 

Heli. Ha ! 'tis he ! and with Almeria ! 
Oh, miracle of happiness ! Oh, joy 
Unhoped for ! does Almeria live ? 

Osm. Where is she ? 
Let me behold, and touch her, and be sure 
'Tis she ; show me her face, and let me feel 

Her lips with mine 'Tis she, I'm not deceived ; 

I taste her breath, I warmed her, and am warmed. 
Look up, Almeria, bless me with thy eyes ; 
Look on thy love, thy lover, and thy husband. 

Aim. I've sworn I'll not wed Garcia : why d'ye force me. 
Is this a father ? 

Osm. look on thy Alphonso. 
Thy father is not here, my love, nor Garcia ; 
Nor am I what I seem, but thy Alphonso. 
Wilt thou not know me ? Hast thou then forgot me ? 
Hast thou thy eyes, yet canst not see Alphonso ? 
Am I so altered, or art thou so changed, 
That seeing my disguise thou seest not me ? 

Aim. It is, it is Alphonso ; 'tis his face, 
His voice, I know him now, I know. him all. 
Oh, take me to thy arms, and bear me hence, 
Back to the bottom of the boundless deep, 
To seas beneath, where thou so long, hast dwelt. 
Oh, how hast thou returned ? How hast thou charmed 
The wildness of the waves and rocks to this ? 



244 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

That thus relenting they have given thee back 
To earth, to light and life, to love and me. 

Osm. Oh; I'll not ask, nor answer, how or why 
We both have "backward trod the paths of fate, 
To meet again in life ; to know I have thee, 
Is knowing more than any circumstance, 

Or means, by which I have thee 

To fold thee thus, to press thy balmy lips, 
And gaze upon thy eyes, is so much joy, 
I have not leisure to reflect, or know, 
Or trifle time in thinking. 

Aim. Stay a while- 
Let me look on thee yet a little more. 

Osm. What wouldst thou ? thou dost put me from thee. 

Aim. Yes. 

Osm. And why ? What dost thou mean ? Why dost 
thou gaze so ? 

Aim. I know not; 'tis to see thy face, I think — 
It is too much ; too much to bear and live ! 
To see thee thus again is such profusion 

Of joy, of bliss 1 cannot bear- 1 must 

Be mad 1 cannot be transported thus. 

Osm. Thou excellence, thou joy, thou heaven of love ! 

Aim. Where hast thou been ? and how art thou alive ? 
How is all this ? All-powerful Heaven, what are we ? 

Oh, my strained heart let me again behold thee, 

For I weep to see thee Art thou not paler ? 

Much, much ; how thou art changed ! 

Osm. Not in my love. 

Aim. No, no, thy griefs, I know, have done this to thee. 
Thou hast wept much, Alphonso ; and, I fear, 
Too much, too tenderly lamented me. 






C ONGREYE. 245 

Osm. Wrong not my love, to say too tenderly. 
No more, my life ; talk not of tears or grief; 
Affliction is no more, now thou art found. 
Why dost thou weep, and hold thee from my arms, 
My arms which ache to hold thee fast, and grow 
To thee with twining ? Come, come to my heart. 

Aim. I will, for I should never look enough. 
They would have married me ; but I had sworn 
To Heaven and thee, and sooner would have died — 

Osm. Perfection of all faithfulness and love ! 

Aim. Indeed I would — Nay, I would tell thee all, 
If I could speak ; how I have mourned and prayed ! 
For I have prayed, to thee, as tai a saint ; 
And thou hast heard my prayer ; for thou art come 
To my distress, to my despair, which Heaven 
Could only, by restoring thee, have cured. 

Osm. Grant me but life, good Heaven, but length of days, 
To pay some part, some little of this debt, 
This countless sum of tenderness and love, 
For which I stand engaged to this all excellence : 
Then bear me in a whirlwind to my fate, 
Snatch me from life, and cut me short unwarned : 
Then, then 'twill be enough — I shall be old, 
I shall have passed all eras then 
Of yet unmeasured time; when I have made 
This exquisite, this most amazing goodness, 
Some recompense of love and matchless truth. 

Aim. 'Tis more than recompense to see thy face. 
If heaven is greater joy, it is no happiness, 
For 'tis not to be borne. What shall I say ? 
I have a thousand things to know and ask, 
And speak — That thou art here beyond all hope, 



H 6 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

All thought; and all at once thou art before me, 
And with such suddenness hast hit my sight, 
Is such surprise, such mystery, such ecstasy, 
It hurries all my soul, and stuns my sense. 
Sure from thy father's tomb thou didst arise ? 

Osm. I did ; and thou, my love, didst call me ; thou. 

Aim. True ; but how cam'st thou there ? Wert thou 
alone ? 

Osm. I was, and lying on my father's lead, 
When broken echoes of a distant voice 
Disturbed the sacred silence of the vault, 
In murmurs round my head. I rose and listened, 
And thought I heard thy spirit call Alphonso ; 
I thought I saw thee too ; but, oh, I thought not 
That I indeed should be so blessed to see thee — 

Aim. But still, how cam'st thou thither? how thus? — Ha! 
What's he, who, like thyself, is started here 
Ere seen ? 

Osm. Where ? Ha ! What do I see, Antonio ! 
I'm fortunate indeed my friend, too, safe ! 

Hell. Most happily, in finding you thus blessed. 

Aim. More miracles ! Antonio too escaped ! 

Osm. And twice escaped ; both from the rage of seas 
And war : for in the fight I saw him fall. 

Hcli. But fell unhurt, a pris'ner as yourself, 
And as yourself made free ; hither I came, 
Impatiently to seek you, where I knew 
Your grief would lead you to lament Anselmo. 

Osm. There are no wonders, or else all is wonder. 

Hell. I saw you on the ground, and raised you up, 
When with astonishment I saw Almeria. 

Osm. I saw her too, and therefore saw not thee. 



GONGREVE. 247 

Aim. Nor I ; nor could I, for my eyes were yours. 

Osm. What means the bounty of all-gracious Heaven, 
That persevering still, with open hand, 
It scatters good, as in a waste of mercy ? 
Where will this end ? But Heaven is infinite 
In all, and can continue to bestow, 
When scanty number shall be spent in telling. 

Leon. Or I'm deceived, or I beheld the glimps 
Of two in shining habits cross the aisle ; 
Who by their pointing seem to mark this place. 

Aim. Sure I have dreamt, if we must part so soon. 

Osm. I wish at least our parting were a dream ; 
Or we could sleep till we again were met. 

Hell. Zara with Selim, sir, I saw and know 'em : 
You must be quick, for love will lend her wings. 

Aim. What love ? Who is she ? Why are you alarmed ? 

Osm. She's the reverse of thee ; she's my unhappiness. 
Harbour no thought that may disturb thy, peace ; 
But gently take thyself away, lest she 
Should come, and see the straining of my eyes 
To follow thee. 

Retire, my love, I'll think how we may meet 
To part no more ; my friend will tell thee all ; 
How I escaped, how I am here, and thus; 
How I'm not called Alphonso now, but Osmyn ; 
And he Heli. Ail, all he will unfold, 
Ere next we meet 

Aim. Sure we shall meet again 

Osm. We shall ; we part not but to meet again. 
Gladness and warmth of ever-kindling love 
Dwell with thee, and revive thy heart in absence. 

[Exeunt Almeria, Leonora, and Heli. 



24 8 G OLDEN LEAVES. 

Yet I behold her — yet — and now no more. 

Turn your lights inward, eyes, and view my thoughts, 

So shall you still behold her — 'twill not be. 

Oh, impotence of sight ! mechanic sense ! 

Which to exterior objects ow'st thy faculty, 

Not seeing of election, but necessity. 

Thus do our eyes, as do all common mirrors, 

Successively reflect succeeding images : 

Not what they would, but must; a star, or toad; 

Just as the hand of chance administers. 

Not so the mind, whose undetermined view 

Revolves, and to the present adds the past ; 

Essaying farther to futurity ; 

But that in vain. I have Almeria here 

At once, as I before have seen her often. 



THE SIEGE OF DAMASCUS. 

The City of Damascus is besieged by Caled, Leader of the Saracens. — 
Eumenes, the Governor of Damascus^ seeks the Camp of Caled, to 
treat for Peace. 

Scene II. — A Plain before the City. A Prospect of Tents 
at a distance. 

Enter Caled, Abudah, and Daran. 
Dar. To treat, my chiefs ! What ! are we mer- 
chants then, 
That only come to traffic with those Syrians, 
And poorly cheapen conquest on conditions ? 



HUGHES. 249 

No ; we were sent to fight the caliph's battles, 

Till every iron neck bend to obedience, 

Another storm makes this proud city ours ; 

What need we treat ? 1 am for war and plunder. 

Caled. Why, so am I -and but to save the lives 

Of Mussulmans, not Christians, I would not treat : 
I hate these Christian dogs ; and 'tis our task, 
As thou observ'st, to fight ; our law enjoins it : 
Heaven too is promised only to the valiant. 
Oft has our Prophet said, the happy plains 
Above lie stretched beneath the blaze of swords. 

Abu. Yet, Daran's loath to trust that Heaven for pay ; 
This earth, it seems, has gifts that please him more. 

Caled. Check not his zeal, Abudah. 

Abu. No : I praise it. 
Yet, I could wish that zeal had better motives. 
Has victory no fruits but blood and plunder ? 
That we were sent to fight, 'tis true ; but * wherefore ? 
For conquest, not destruction. That obtained, 
The more we spare, the caliph has more subjects, 
And Heaven is better served But see, they come ! 

Enter Eumenes, Herbis, and Artamon. 

Caled. Well, Christians, we are met — and war awhile, 
At your request, has stilled his angry voice, 
To hear what you will purpose. 

Ewn. We come to know, 
After so many troops you've lost in vain, 
If you'll draw off in peace, and save the rest. 

Her. Or rather to know first — for yet we know not — 
Why on your heads you call our pointed arrows, 
In our own just defence ! What means this visit ? 



250 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

And why see we so many thousand tents 
Rise in the air, and whiten all our fields ? 

Caled, Is that a question now ? you had our summons, 
When first we marched against you, to surrender. 
Two moons have wasted since, and now the third 
Is in its wane. 'Tis true, -drawn off a while, 
At Aiznadin we met, and fought the powers 
Sent by your emperor to raise our siege. 
Vainly you thought us gone ; we gained a conquest. 
You see we are returned ; our hearts, our cause, 
Our swords the same. 

Her. But why those swords were drawn, 
And what's the cause, inform us. 

Eum. Speak your wrongs, 
If wrongs you have received, and by what means 
They may be now repaired. 

Abu. Then, Christians, hear ! 
And Heaven inspire you to embrace its truth ! 
Not wrongs t' avenge, but to establish right 
Our swords were drawn : for such is Heaven's command 
Immutable. By us great Mahomet, 
And his successor, holy Abubeker, 
Invite you to the faith. 

Arta. \Aside^\ So — then, it seems 
There's no harm meant ; we're only to be beaten 
Into a new religion. If that's all, 
I find I am already half a convert. 

Eum. Now, in the name of Heaven, what faith is this, 
That stalks gigantic forth, thus armed with terrors, 
As if it meant to ruin, not to save ? 
That leads embattled legions to the field, 
And marks its progress out with blood and slaughter? 



HUGHES. 251 

Her. Bold, frontless men ! that impudently dare 
To blend religion with the worst of crimes ! 
And sacrilegiously usurp that name, 
To cover fraud, and justify oppression ! 

Eum. Where are your priests ? What doctors of your law 
Have you e'er sent t' instruct us in its precepts ? 
To solve our doubts, and satisfy our reason, 
And kindly lead us through the wilds of error 
To these new tracts of truth. This would be friendship, 
And well might claim our thanks. 

Caled. Friendship like this 
With scorn had been received : your numerous vices, 
Your clashing sects, your mutual rage and strife, 
Have driven Religion, and her angel guards, 
Like outcasts, from among you. In her stead, 
Usurping Superstition bears the sway, 
And reigns in mimic state, 'midst idol shows, 
And pageantry of power. Who does not* mark 
Your lives ? Rebellious to your own great Prophet 
Who mildly taught you — therefore Mahomet 
Has brought the rword to govern you by force, 
Nor will accept obedience so precarious. 

Eum. O solemn truths, though from an impious tongue ! 
That we're unworthy of our holy faith, [Aside. 

To Heaven, with grief and conscious shame, we own. 
But what are you that thus arraign our vices, 
And consecrate your own ? Vile hypocrite ! 
Are you not sons of rapine, foes to peace, 
Base robbers, murderers 

Caled. Christians, no — 

Eum. Then say, 
Why have you ravaged all our peaceful borders ? 



252 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Plundered our towns ? and by what claim, e'en now, 
You tread this ground ? 

Her. What claim, but that of hunger ? — 
The claim of ravenous wolves, that leave their dens 
To prowl at midnight round some sleeping village, 
Or watch the shepherd's folded flock for prey? 

Caled. Blasphemer, know, your fields and towns are ours ; 
Our Prophet has bestowed them on the faithful, 
And Heaven itself has ratified the grant. 

Eum. Oh, now indeed you boast a noble title ! 
What could your Prophet grant ? a hireling slave ! 
Not e'en the mules and camels which he drove 
Were his to give ; and yet the bold impostor 
Has cantoned out the kingdoms of the earth, 
In frantic fits of visionary power, 
To soothe his pride, and bribe his fellow-madmen ! 

Caled. Was it for this you sent to ask a parley, 
T' affront our faith, and to traduce our Prophet ? 
Well might we answer you with quick revenge 
For such indignities. Yet, hear once more, 
Hear this, our last demand ; and this accepted, 
We yet withdraw our war. Be Christians still, 
But swear to live with us in firm alliance, 
To yield us aid, and pay us annual tribute. 

Eum. No, should we grant you aid, we must be rebels ; 
And tribute is the slavish badge of conquest. 
Yet since, on just and honourable terms, 
We ask but for our own — ten silken vests, 
Weighty with pearl and gems, we'll send your caliph ; 
Two, Caled, shall be thine ; two thine, Abdudah. 
To each inferior captain we decree 
A turban spun from our Damascus flax. 



HUGHES. 253 

White as the snows of heaven ; to every soldier 

A scymitar. This, and of solid gold 

Ten ingots, be the price to buy your absence. 

Caled. This, and much more, even all your shining wealth, 
Will soon be ours : look round your Syrian frontiers ! 
See in how many towns our hoisted flags 
Are waving in the wind : Sachna, and Hawran, 
Proud Tadmor, Aracah, and stubborn Bosra, 
Have bowed beneath the yoke ; behold our march 
O'er half your land, like flame through fields of harvest. 
And last, view Aiznadin, that vale of blood ! 
There seek the souls of forty thousand Greeks 
That, fresh from life, yet hover o'er their bodies : 
Then think, and then resolve. 

Her. Presumptuous men ! 
What though you yet can boast successful guilt, 
Is conquest only yours? Or dare you hope 
That you shall still pour on the swelling tide, 
Like some proud river that has left its banks, 
Nor ever know repulse ? 

Eum. Have you forgot ? 
Not twice seven years are past since e'en your Prophet, 
Bold as he was, and boasting aid divine, 
Was by the tribe of Corish forced to fly, 
Poorly to fly, to save his wretched life, 
From Mecca to Medina ? 

Abu. No — forgot! 
We well remember how Medina screened 
That holy head, preserved for better days, 
And ripening years of glory. 

Dar. Why, my chiefs,. 
Will you waste time in offering terms despised 



254 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

To these idolaters ? Words are but air ; 
Blows would plead better. 

Caled. Daran, thou say'st true. — 
Christians, here end our truce. Behold, once more 
The sword of Heaven is drawn ! nor shall be sheathed 
But in the bowels of Damascus. 

Eum. That, 
Or speedy vengeance, and destruction due 
To the proud menacers, as Heaven sees fit ! [Exeunt. 



CATO. 

Julius C^sar approaching Utica to subdue it, Cato, the Governor of 
Utica, assembles the Senators for consultation. 

The Senate-House. — Flourish ; Sempronius, Lucius, and 
Senators, discovered. 

Sem. Rome still survives in this assembled senate. 
Let us remember we are Cato's friends, 
And act like men who claim that glorious title. [ Trumpets. 

Luc. Hark ! he comes. 

Trumpets. Enter Cato, with Portius and Marcus, his 
Sons. 

Cato. Fathers, we once again are met in council ; 
Caesar's approach has summoned us together, 
And Rome attends her fate from our resolves. 
How shall we treat this bold, aspiring man ? 
Success still follows him, and backs his crimes; 



ADDISON. 

Pharsalia gave him Rome, Egypt has since 

Received his yoke, and the whole Nile is Caesar's. 

Why should I mention Juba's overthrow, 

And Scipio's death ? Numidia's burning sands 

Still smoke with blood. 'Tis time we should decree 

What course to take. Our foe advances on us, 

And envies us even Libya's sultry deserts. 

Fathers, pronounce your thoughts : are they still fixed 

To hold it out, and fight it to the last ? 

Or are your hearts subdued at length, and wrought, 

By time and ill success, to a submission ? 

Sempronius, speak. 

Sem. My voice is still for war. 
Gods ! can a Roman senate long debate 
Which of the two to choose, slavery or death ? 
No ; let us rise at once, gird on our swords, 
And, at the head of our remaining troops, 
Attack the foe, break through the thick array 
Of his thronged legions, and charge home upon him. 
Perhaps, some arm, more lucky than the rest, 
May reach his heart, and free the world from bondage. 
Rise, fathers, rise ! 'tis Rome demands your help ; 
Rise, and revenge her slaughtered citizens, 

Or share their fate. To battle ! 

Great Pompey's shade complains that we are slow, 
And Scipio's ghost walks unrevenged amongst us. 

Cato. Let not a torrent of impetuous zeal 
Transport thee thus beyond the bounds of reason; 
True fortitude is seen in great exploits, 
That justice warrants, and that wisdom guides; 
All else is towering frenzy and distraction. 
Lucius, we next would know what's yo-ur opinion. 



2 55 



2.56 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Luc. My thoughts, I must confess, are turned on peace. 
Already have we shown our love to Rome ; 
Now let us show submission to the gods. 
We took up arms, not to revenge ourselves, 
But free the commonwealth ; when this end fails, 
Arms have no further use* Our country's cause, 
That drew our swords, now wrests them from our hands, 
And bids us not delight in Roman blood, 
Unprofitably shed. What men could do, 
Is done already : Heaven and earth will witness, 
If Rome must fall, that we are innocent. 

Cato. Let us appear nor rash nor diffident ; 
Immod'rate valour swells into a fault ; 
And fear, admitted into public councils, 
Betrays like treason. Let us shun them both. 
Fathers, I cannot see that our afFairs 
Are grown thus desp'rate : we have bulwarks round us ; 
Within our walls are troops inured to toil 
In Afric's heat, and seasoned to the sun ; 
Numidia's spacious kingdom lies behind us, 
Ready to rise at its young prince's call. 
While there is hope, do not disturb the gods ; 
But wait at least till Caesar's near approach 
Force us to yield. 'Twill never be too late 
To sue for chains, and own a conqueror. 
Why should Rome fall a moment ere her time ? 
No, let us draw her term of freedom out 
In its full length, and spin it to the last, 
So shall we gain still one's day's liberty : 
And let me perish, but, in Cato's judgment, 
A day, an hour, of virtuous liberty, 
Is worth a whole eternity in bondage. 



ADDISON. 257 

Enter Junius. 

Mar. Fathers, e'en now a herald is arrived 
From Caesar's camp, and with him comes old Decius, 
The Roman knight : he carries in his looks 
Impatience, and demands to speak with Cato. 

Cato. By your permission, fathers — bid him enter. 

\Exit Junius. 
Decius was once my friend, but other prospects 
Have loosed those ties, and bound him fast to Caesar. 
His message may determine our resolves. 

Enter Decius. 

Dec. Caesar sends health to Cato — 

Cato. Could he send it 
To Cato's slaughtered friends, it would be welcome. 
Are not your orders to address the senate ? 

Dec. My business is with Cato ; Caesar sees 
The straits to which you're driven ; and, a3 he knows 
Cato's high worth, is anxious for your life. 

Cato. My life is grafted on the fate of Rome. 
Would he save Cato, bid him spare his country. 
Tell your dictator this ; and tell him, Cato 
Disdains a life which he has power to offer. 

Dec. Rome and her senators submit to Caesar ; 
Her gen'rals and her consuls are no more, 
Who checked his conquests, and denied his triumphs. 
Why will not Cato be this Caesar's friend ? 

Cato. These very reasons thou hast urged forbid it. 

Dec. Caesar is well acquainted with your virtues, 
And therefore sets this value on your life. 
Let him but know the price of Cato's friendship, 
And name your terms. 



258 G OLDEN LEAVES. 

Cato. Bid him disband his legions, 
Restore the commonwealth to liberty, 
Submit his actions to the public censure, 
And stand the judgment of a Roman senate. 
Bid him do this, and Cato is his friend. 

Dec. Cato, the world talks loudly of your wisdom — 

Cato. Nay, more; though Cato's voice was ne'er employed 
To clear the guilty, and to varnish crimes, 
Myself will mount the rostrum in his favour, 
And strive to gain his pardon from the people. 

Dec. A style like this becomes a conqueror. 

Cato. Decius, a style like this becomes a Roman. 

Dec. What is a Roman, that is Caesar's foe ? 

Cato. Greater than Caesar : he's a friend to virtue. 

Dec. Consider, Cato, you're in Utica, 
And at the head of your own little senate : 
You don't now thunder in the capitol, 
With all the mouths of Rome to second you. 

Cato. Let him consider that, who drives us hither. 
'Tis Caesar's sword has made Rome's senate little, 
And thinned its ranks. Alas ! thy dazzled eye 
Beholds this man in a false, glaring light, 
Which conquest and success have thrown upon him ; 
Didst thou but view him right, thou'dst see him black 
With murder, treason, sacrilege, and crimes 
That strike my soul with horror but to name them. 
I know thou lookest on me as a wretch 
Beset with ills, and covered with misfortunes ; 
But, by the gods I swear, millions of worlds 
Should never buy me to be like that Caesar. 

Dec. Does Cato send this answer back to Caesar, 
For all his gen'rous cares and proffered friendship ? 



ADDISON. 259 

Cato. His cares for me are insolent and vain : 
Presumptuous man ! the gods take care of Cato. 
Would Caesar show the greatness of his soul, 
Bid him employ his care for these my friends, 
And make good use of his ill-gotten power, 
By shelt'ring men much better than himself. 

Dec. Your high, unconquered heart makes you forget 
You are a man. You rush on your destruction. 
But I have done. When I relate hereafter 
The tale of this unhappy embassy, 
All Rome will be in tears. [Exit, attended. 

Sem. Cato, we thank thee. 
The mighty genius of immortal Rome 
Speaks in thy voice ; thy soul breathes liberty. 
Caesar will shrink to hear the words thou utter'st, 
And shudder in the midst of all his conquests. 

Luc. The senate owns its gratitude to Cato, 
Who with so great a soul consults its safety, 
And guards our lives, while he neglects his own. 

Sem. Sempronius gives no thanks on this account. 
Lucius seems fond of life ; but what is life ? 
'Tis not to stalk about, and draw fresh air 
From time to time, or gaze upon the sun ; — 
'Tis to be free. When liberty is gone, 
Life grows insipid, and has lost its relish. 
Oh, could my dying hand but lodge a sword 
In Caesar's bosom, and revenge my country, 
By Heaven, I could enjoy the pangs of death, 
And smile in agony ! 

Luc. Others perhaps 
May serve their country with as warm a zeal, 
Though 'tis not kindled into so much rage. 



260 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Sem. This sober conduct is a mighty virtue 
In lukewarm patriots. 

Cato. Come, no more, Sempronius ; 
All here are friends to Rome, and to each other. 
Let us not weaken still the weaker side 
By our divisions. 

Sem. Cato, my resentments 
Are sacrificed to Rome : I stand reproved. 

Cato. Fathers, 'tis time you come to a resolve. 

Luc. Cato, we all go into your opinion : 
Caesar's behaviour has convinced the senate, 
We ought to hold it out till terms arrive. 

Sem. We ought to hold it out till death; but, Cato, 
My private voice is drowned amidst the senate's. 

Cato, Then let us rise, my friends, and strive to fill 
This little interval, this pause of life 
(While yet our liberty and fates are doubtful), 
With resolution, friendship, Roman bravery, 
And all the virtues we can crowd into it ; 
That Heaven may say, it ought to be prolonged. 
Fathers, farewell Exeunt. 

C^sar is victorious, and Cato, preferring death to captivity, deter- 
mines to die by his oivn hand. 

A Chamber. — Cato solus, sitting in a thoughtful pos- 
ture ; in his hand, Plato's book on the immortality of 
the soul ; a drawn sword on the table, by him. 

Cato. It must be so — Plato, thou reason'st well- 
Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire, 
This longing after immortality ? 
Or whence this secret dread, this inward horror, 
Of falling into naught ? Why shrinks the soul 



ADDISON. 261 

Back on herself, and startles at destruction ? 

'Tis the divinity that stirs within us ; 

'Tis Heaven itself that points out an hereafter, 

And intimates eternity to man. 

Eternity ! thou pleasing, dreadful thought ! 

Through what variety of untried being, 

Through what new scenes and changes, must we pass ? 

The wide, the unbounded prospect lies before me : 

But shadows, clouds, and darkness, rest upon it. 

Here will I hold. If there's a power above us 

(And that there is, all Nature cries aloud 

Through all her works), he must delight in virtue ; 

And that which he delights in must be happy. 

But when, or where ? — This world was made for Caesar. 

I'm weary of conjectures : — this must end them. 

[Laying his hand on his sword. 
Thus am I doubly armed : my death and life, 
My bane and antidote, are both before me. 
This in a moment brings me to an end; 
But this informs me I shall never die. 
The soul, secured in her existence, smiles 
At the drawn dagger, and defies its point. 
The stars shall fade away, the sun himself 
Grow dim with age, and Nature sink in years, 
But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth, 
Unhurt amidst the war of elements, 
The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds. 
What means this heaviness that hangs upon me ? 
This lethargy that creeps through all my senses ? 
Nature, oppressed and harassed out with care, 
Sinks down to rest. This once I'll favour her, 
That my awakened soul may take her flight, 



262 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Renewed in all her strength, and fresh with life, 
An offering fit for Heaven. Let guilt or fear 
Disturb man's rest, Cato knows neither of them — 
Indifferent in his choice, to sleep or die. 
.... Portius, thou mayst rely upon my conduct : 
Thy father will not act what misbecomes him. 
But go, my son, and see if aught be wanting 
Among thy father's friends ; see them embarked, 
And tell me if the winds and seas befriend them. 
My soul is quite weighed down with care, and asks 
The soft refreshment of a moment's sleep. 
% * * * * * 

u Cato falls on his ouon sword" The tragedy ends ivith the following 
lines : — 

From hence, let fierce contending nations know, 
What dire effects from civil discord flow : 
'Tis this that shakes our country with alarms, 
And gives up Rome a prey to Roman arms ; 
Produces fraud, and cruelty, and strife, 
And robs the guilty world of Cato's life. 



IRENE. 

To-morroiv. 

.... To-MORROW ! 

That fatal mistress of the young, the lazy, 
The coward, and the fool, condemned to lose 
A useless life in waiting for to-morrow — 



LILLO. 263 

To gaze with longing eyes upon to-morrow, 
Till interposing death destroys the prospect ! 
Strange ! that this general fraud from day to day 
Should fill the world with wretches undetected. 
The soldier, labouring through a winter's march, 
Still sees to-morrow dressed in robes of triumph ; 
Still to the lover's long-expecting arms 
To-morrow brings the visionary bride. 
But thou, too old to bear another cheat, 
Learn that the present hour alone is man's. 



©eorge Cilia. 

FATAL CURIOSITY. 

Young Wii.mot, supposed by .Parents and Friends to have been ship- 
wrecked on his return from the Indies, has escaped Death, and arrives 
in England, where he learns that his Parents are reduced to great 
Poverty. He has acquired a large Fortune, and, impelled by a "fa- 
tal Curiosity '," he visits his Father and Mother in disguise ,* and after- 
wards, to increase their pleasure by the surprise of his discovery, he 
puts his design in execution, and delivers into his Mothers hands a 
Casket of Jewels, and then retires to rest, still under his disguise. 

Old Wilmot's House. — Agnes enters alone, with the Cas- 
ket in her hand. 
Agn. Who should this stranger be ? And then this casket- 
He says it is of value, and yet trusts it, 
As if a trifle, to a stranger's hand. 
His confidence amazes me — perhaps 
It is not what he says — I'm strongly tempted 
To open it, and see : — No, let it rest. 
Why should my curiosity excite me, 
12* 



264 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

To search and pry into th' affairs of others ; 

Who have, t'employ my thoughts, so many cares 

And sorrows of my own ? — With how much ease , 

The spring gives way ! — Surprising ! 

My eyes are dazzled, and my ravished heart 

Leaps at the glorious sight. How bright's the lustre, 

How immense the worth of these fair jewels ! 

Ay, such a treasure would expel forever 

Base poverty, and all its abject train ; 

Famine ; the cold neglect of friends ; 

The galling scorn, or more provoking pity 

Of an insulting world — Possessed of these, 

Plenty, content, and power might take their turn, 

And lofty pride bare its aspiring head 

At our approach, and once more bend before us. — 

A pleasing dream ! 'Tis past ; and now I wake. 

For sure it was a happiness to think, 

Though but a moment, such a treasure mine. 

Nay, it was more than thought — I saw and touched 

The bright temptation, and I see it yet — 

'Tis here — 'tis mine — I have it in possession — 

Must I resign it ? must I give it back ? 

Am I in love with misery and want — 

To rob myself, and court so vast a loss ? — 

Retain it then; but how ? There is a way — 

Why sinks my heart ? why does my blood run cold ? 

Why am I thrilled with horror ? 'Tis not choice, 

But dire necessity, suggests the thought. 

Enter Old Wilmot. 

0. WiL The mind contented, with how little pains, 
The wand'ring senses yield to soft repose, 



LILLO. 265 

And die to gain new life ! He's fallen asleep 

Already — happy man ! — What dost thou think, 

My Agnes, of our unexpected guest ? 

He seems to me a youth of great humanity : 

Just ere he closed his eyes, that swam in tears, 

He wrung my hand, and pressed it to his lips ; 

And, with a look that pierced me to the soul, 

Begged me to comfort thee : and — dost thou hear me ? — 

What art thou gazing on? — Fie, 'tis not well — 

This casket was delivered to you closed : 

Why have you opened it ? Should this be known, 

How mean must we appear ! 

Agn. And who shall know it ? 

0. WiL There is a kind of pride, a decent dignity, 
Due to ourselves ; which, spite of our misfortunes, 
May be maintained, and cherished to the last. 
To live without reproach, and without leave 
To quit the world, shows sovereign contempt, 
And noble scorn of its relentless malice. 

Agn. Shows sov'reign madness, and a scorn of sense. 
Pursue no further this detested theme : 
I will not die, I will not leave the world 
For all that you can urge, until compelled. 

0. WiL To chase a shadow, when the setting sun 
Is darting his last rays, were just as wise 
As your anxiety for fleeting life, 
Now the last means for its support are failing : 
Were famine not as mortal as the sword, 
Your warmth might be excused — But take thy choice ; 
Die how you will, you shall not die alone. 

Agn. Nor live, I hope. 

0. WiL There is no fear of that 



266 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Agn. Then, we'll live both. 

0. WiL Strange folly ! where the means ? 

Agn. There ; those jewels — 

0. WiL Ah !— Take heed !— 
Perhaps thou dost but try me ; yet take heed — 
There's naught so monstrous but the mind of man 
In some conditions may be brought t'approve ; 
Theft, sacrilege, treason, and parricide, 
When flatt'ring opportunity enticed, 
And desperation drove, have been committed 
By those who once would start to hear them named. 

Agn. And add to these, detested suicide, 
Which, by a crime much less, we may avoid. 

0. WiL Th' inhospitable murder of our guest ! — 
How could'st thou form a thought so very damning, 
So advantageous, so secure, and easy ; 
And yet so cruel, and so full of horror ? 

Agn. 'Tis less impiety, less against nature, 
To take another's life, than end our own. 

0. WiL No matter which, the less or greater crime ; 
Howe'er we may deceive ourselves or others, 
We act from inclination, not by rule, 
Or none could act amiss. And that all err, 
None but the conscious hypocrite denies. 
O ! what is man, his excellence and strength, 
When, in an hour of trial and desertion, 
Reason, his noblest power, may be suborned 
To plead the cause of vile assassination ! 

Agn. You're too severe : reason may justly plead 
For our own preservation. 

0. WiL Rest contented : 
Whate'er resistance I may seem to make, 



LILLO. 267 

I am betrayed within : my will's seduced, 
And my whole soul infected. The desire 
Of life returns, and brings with it a train 
Of appetites that rage to be supplied. 
Whoever stands to parley with temptation, 
Parleys to be o'ercome. 

Agn. Then naught remains, 
But the swift execution of a deed 
That is not to be thought on, or delayed. [thee 

0. WiL Gen'rous, unhappy man ! Oh, what could move 
To put thy life and fortune in the hands 
Of wretches mad with anguish ? 

Agn. By what means 
Shall we effect his death ? 

0. WiL Why, what a fiend ! — 
How cruel, how remorseless and impatient, 
Have pride and poverty made thee ! 

Agn. Barbarous man ! 
Whose wasteful riots ruined our estate, 
And drove our son, ere the first down had spread 
His rosy cheeks, spite of my sad presages, 
Earnest entreaties, agonies, and tears, 
To seek his bread 'mongst strangers, and to perish 
In some remote, inhospitable land — 
The loveliest youth, in person and in mind, 
That ever crowned a groaning mother's pains ! 
Where was thy pity, where thy patience, then ? 
Thou cruel husband ! thou unnat'ral father ! 
Thou most remorseless, most ungrateful man ! 
To waste my fortune, rob me of my son ; 
To drive me to despair, and then reproach me 
For being what thou'st made me. 



268 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

0. Wil. Dry thy tears : 
I ought not to reproach thee. I confess 
That thou hast suffered much : so have we both. 
But chide no more — I'm wrought up to thy purpose. 
The poor, ill-fated> unsuspecting victim, 
Ere he reclined him on the fatal couch, 
From which he's ne'er to rise, took off the sash 
And costly dagger that thou saw'st him wear ; 
And thus, unthinking, furnished us with arms 
Against himself. Steal to the door, 

And bring me word if he be still asleep. [Exit Agnes. 

Or Pm deceived, or he pronounced himself 
The happiest of mankind. Deluded wretch ! 
Thy thoughts are perishing, thy youthful joys, 
Touched by the icy hand of grisly death, 
Are with'ring in their bloom. But, thought extinguished, 
He'll never know the loss, nor feel the bitter 
Pangs of disappointment. Then I was wrong 
In counting him a wretch : to die well pleased, 
Is all the happiest of mankind can hope for. 
To be a wretch, is to survive the loss 
Of every joy, and even hope itself, 
As I have done. Why do I mourn him then ? 
For, by the anguish of my tortured soul, 
He's to be envied, if compared with me. [Exit. 

Old Wilmot, assisted by his Wife Agnes, murder their Son ivhile he 
sleeps. Young Wilmot disclosed his intended 'visit to his Parents to 
his Betrothed, Charlotte, to his Friend Eustace, and to an old 
Servant, Randal, zvho are appointed to meet him at the House of 
old Wilmot. They arrive after the murder is completed. 

A Room in Wilmot's House. 
Enter Charlotte, Eustace, and Randal. 



LJLLO. 269 

Char. What strange neglect ! The doors are all unbarred, 
And not a living creature to be seen. 

Enter Old Wilmot and Agnes. 

Sir, we are come to give and to receive 
A thousand greetings. Ha ! what can this mean ? 
Why do you look with such amazement on us ? 
Are these your transports for your son's return ? 
Where is my Wilmot ? Has he not been here ? 
Would he defer your happiness so long ; 
Or, could a habit so disguise your son, 
That you refused to own him ? 

Agn. Heard you that ? 
What prodigy of horror is disclosing, 
To render murder venial ! 

0. WiL Pr'ythee peace : 
The miserable damned suspend their howling, 
And the swift orbs are fixed in deep attention. 

Ran. What mean these dreadful words and frantic air ! 
That is the dagger my young master wore. 

Enst. My mind misgives me. Do not stand to gaze 
On these dumb phantoms of despair and horror ! 
Let us search farther : Randal, show the way. 

[Exeunt Randal, Eustace, and Charlotte. 

Agn. Let life forsake the earth, and light the sun, 
And death and darkness bury in oblivion 
Mankind and all their deeds, that no posterity 
May ever rise to hear our horrid tale, 
Or view the grave of such detested parricides. 

0. WiL Curses and deprecations are in vain. 
The sun will shine, and all things have their course, 
When we, the curse and burden of the earth, 



270 G OLDEN LEAVES. 

Shall be absorbed and mingled with its dust. 

Our guilt and desolation must be told, 

From age to age, to teach desponding mortals, 

How far beyond the reach of human thought 

Heaven, when incensed, can punish. — Die thou first. 

I dare not trust thy weakness. [Stabs Agnes. 

Agn. Ever kind, 
But most in this ! 

0. Wil. I will not long survive thee. 

Agn. Do not accuse thy erring mother, Wilmot ! 
With too much rigour, when we meet above. 
To give thee life for life, and blood for blood, 
Is not enough. Had I ten thousand lives, 
I'd give them all to speak my penitence, 
Deep and sincere, and equal to my crime. 
O Wilmot ! O my son ! my son ! [Dies. 

Enter Randal and Eustace. 

East Oh, Wilmot ! Wilmot ! 
Are these the fruits of all thy anxious cares 
For thy ungrateful parents ? — Cruel fiends ! 

0. WiL What whining fool art thou, who would'st usurp 
My sovereign right of grief ? — Was he thy son ? — 
Say ! canst thou show thy hands reeking with blood, 
That flowed, through purer channels, from thy loins ? 
Compute the sands that bound the spacious ocean, 
And swell their numbers with a single grain ; 
Increase the noise of thunder with thy voice; 
Or, when the raging wind lays nature waste, 
Assist the tempest with thy feeble breath ! 
But name not thy faint sorrow with the anguish 
Of a cursed wretch, who only hopes for this [Stabs himself 
To change the scene, but not relieve his pain. 



YOUNG. 271 

Ran. A dreadful instance of the last remorse ! 
May all our woes end here ! 

0. Wil. O would they end 
A thousand ages hence, I then should suffer 
Much less than I deserve. Yet let me say, 
You'll do but justice to inform the world, 
This horrid deed, that punishes itself, 
Was not intended, thinking him our son ; 
For that we knew not, till it was too late. 
Proud and impatient under our afflictions, 
While Heaven was labouring to make us happy, 
We brought this dreadful ruin on ourselves. 
Mankind may learn — but — oh ! — [Dies. 



Eeo. €bu)arb ^oung, W. D. 

THE REVENGE. 

Zanga, a noble Moor, is taken captive by Don Alonzo, by •whom he 
is held in Servitude. He narrates the history of his Wrongs to his 
Wife Isabella. 

Battlements, with a Sea Prospect. 

Enter Zanga. 

Zan. Whether first nature, or long want of peace, 
Has wrought my mind to this, I cannot tell ; 
But horrors now are not displeasing to me : [Thunder. 

I like this rocking of the battlements. 
Rage on, ye winds; burst, clouds; and waters, roar ! 
You bear a just resemblance of my fortune, 
And suit the gloomy habit of my soul. 



272 GOLDEN LEAVES. 



Enter Isabella. 



Who's there ? My love ! 

ha. Why have you left my bed ? 
Your absence more affrights me than the storm. 

Zan. The dead alone in such a night can rest, 
And I indulge my meditation here. 
Woman, away. I choose to be alone. 

ha. I know you do, and therefore will not leave you ; 
Excuse me, Zanga, therefore dare not leave you. 
Is this a night for walks of contemplation ? 
Something unusual hangs upon your heart, 
And I will know it ; by our loves, I will. 
Ask I too much, to share in your distress ? 

Zan. In tears ? thou fool ! then hear me, and be plunged 
In hell's abyss, if ever it escape thee. 
To strike thee with astonishment at once — 
I hate Alonzo. First recover that, 
And then thou shalt hear further. 

ha. Hate Alonzo ! 
I own, I thought Alonzo most your friend, 
And that he lost the master in that name. 

Zan. Hear then. 'Tis twice three years since that great 
man 
(Great let me call him, for he conquered me) 
Made me the captive of his arm in fight. 
He slew my father, and threw chains o'er me, 
While I with pious rage pursued revenge. 
I then was young ; he placed me near his person, 
And thought me not dishonoured by his service. 
One day (may that returning day be night, 
The stain, the curse, of each succeeding year !) 



YOUNG. 273 

For something, or for nothing, in his pride 
He struck me. (While I tell it, do I live ?) 
He smote me on the cheek — I did not stab him, 
For that were poor revenge. E'er since, his folly 
Has strove to bury it beneath a heap 
Of kindnesses, and thinks it is forgot. 
Insolent thought ! and like a second blow ! 
Affronts are innocent, where men are worthless ; 
And such alone can wisely drop revenge. 

Isa. But with more temper, Zanga, tell your story ; 
To see your strong emotions startles me. 

Zan. Yes, woman, with the temper that befits it. 
Has the dark adder venom ? So have I 
When trod upon. Proud Spaniard, thou shalt feel me ! 
For from that day, the day of my dishonour, 
From that day have I cursed the rising sun, 
Which never failed to tell me of my shame. 
From that day have I blessed the coming night, 
Which promised to conceal it ; but in vain ; 
The blow returned forever in my dream. 
Ye: on I toiled, and groaned for an occasion 
Of ample vengeance ; none has yet arrived. 
Howe'er, at present, I conceive warm hopes 
Of what may wound him sore in his ambition, 
Life of his life, and dearer than his soul. 
By nightly march he purposed to surprise 
The Moorish camp ; but I have taken care 
They shall be ready to receive his favour. 
Failing in this, a cast of utmost moment, 
Would darken all the conquests he has won. 

Isa. Just as I entered, an express arrived. 

Zan. To whom ? 



274 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Isa. His friend, Don Carlos. 

Zan. Be propitious, 
O Mahomet ! on this important hour, 
And give at length my famished soul revenge ! 
What is revenge, but courage to call in 
Our honour's debts, and wisdom to convert 
Others' self-love into our own protection? 
But see, the morning dawn breaks in upon us ; 
I'll seek Don Carlos, and inquire my fate. [Exeunt, 

Zanga, to carry out his revenge, infuses jealousy into the mind of 
Alonzo, by persuading him that his Wife Leonora, Daughter of 
Alvarez, has proved false to her marriage-voivs, with Don Carlos. 
Alonzo taxes Leonora ivith infidelity ; and she y maddened by the 
imputation, kills herself The final catastrophe is developed in the 
following Scene. 

Zanga. 

Zan, How stands the great account 'twixt me and ven- 
geance ? 
Though much is paid, yet still it owes me much, 
And I will not abate a single groan. 
Ha ! that were well — but that were fatal too. 
Why, be it so — Revenge so truly great, 
Would come too cheap, if bought with less than life. 

Enter Isabella. 

Isa, Ah, Zanga, see me tremble ! Has not yet 
Thy cruel heart its fill ? Poor Leonora — 

Zan. Welters in blood, and gasps for her last breath. 
What then ? We all must die. 

Isa. Alonzo raves, 
And, in the tempest of his grief, has thrice 
Attempted on his life. At length, disarmed, 



YOUNG. 275 

He calls his friends, that save him, his worst foes, 

And importunes the skies for swift perdition. 

Thus in his storm of sorrow : after pause, 

He started up, and called aloud for Zanga ; 

For Zanga raved ; and see, he seeks you here, 

To learn that truth, which most he dreads to know. 

Zan. Begone. Now, now, my soul, consummate all. 

[Exit Isabella. 
Enter Alonzo. 

A Ion. Oh, Zanga ! 

Zan. Do not tremble so : but speak. 

Alan. I dare not. [Falls on him. 

Zan. You will drown me with your tears. 

Alon. Have I not cause ? 

Zan. As yet, you have no cause. 

Alon. Dost thou too rave ? 

Zan. Your anguish is to come : 
You much have been abused. 

Alon. Abused ! by whom ? 

Zan. To know, were little comfort. 

Alon. Oh, 'twere much ! 

Zan. Indeed ! 

Alon. By Heaven ! oh, give him to my fury ! 

Zan. Born for your use, I live but to oblige you. 
Know, then, 'twas — I. 

Alon. Am I awake ? 

Zan. Forever. 
Thy wife is guiltless — that's one transport to me ; 
And I, I let thee know it — that's another. 
I urged Don Carlos to resign his mistress, 
I forged the letter, I disposed the picture ; 
I hated, I despised, and I destroy ! 



2j6 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

A Ion. Oh ! [Swoons. 

Zan. Why, this is well — why, this is blow for blow ! 
Where are you ? Crown me, shadow me with laurels, 
Ye spirits which delight in just revenge ! 
Let Europe and her pallid sons go weep ; 
Let Afric and her hundred thrones rejoice : 
Oh, my dear countrymen, look down and see 
How I bestride your prostrate conqueror ! 
I tread on haughty Spain, and all her kings. 
But this is mercy, this is my indulgence; 
'Tis peace, 'tis refuge from my indignation. 
I must awake him into horrors. Hoa ! 
Alonzo, hoa ! the Moor is at the gate ! 
Awake, invincible, omnipotent ! 
Thou who dost all subdue ! 

Alon. Inhuman slave ! 

Zan. Fallen Christian, thou mistak'st my character. 
Look on me. Who am I ? — I know, thou say'st 
The Moor, a slave, an abject, beaten slave : 
(Eternal woes to him that made me so !) 
But look again. Has six years cruel bondage 
Extinguished majesty so far, that naught 
Shines here to give an awe of one above thee ? 
When the great Moorish king, Abdallah, fell, 
Fell by thy hand accursed, I fought fast by him. 
His son, though, through his fondness, in disguise, 
Less to expose me to th' ambitious foe. — 
Ha ! does it wake thee ? — O'er my father's corse 
I stood astride till I had clove thy crest ; 
And then was made the captive of a squadron, 
And sunk into thy servant — But, oh ! what, 
What were my wages ? Hear not Heaven, nor earth ! 



YOUNG. 277 

My wages were a blow ! by Heaven, a blow ! 
And from a mortal hand ! 

Alon. O villain, villain ! 

Zan. All strife is vain. [Showing a dagger. 

Alon. Is thus my love returned ? 
Is this my recompense ? Make friends of tigers ! 
Lay not your young, oh, mothers, on the breast, 
For fear they turn to serpents as they lie, 
And pay you for their nourishment with death ! — 
Carlos is dead, and Leonora dying ! 
Both innocent, both murdered, both by me. 

Zan. Must I despise thee too, as well as hate thee ? 
Complain of grief, complain thou art a man. — 
Priam from fortune's lofty summit fell ; 
Great Alexander 'midst his conquests mourned ; 
Heroes and demi-gods have known their sorrows ; 
Caesars have wept ; and I have had — my blow ; 
But 'tis revenged, and now my work is done. 
Yet, ere I fall, be it one part of vengeance 
To force thee to confess that I am just. — 
Thou scest a prince, whose father thou hast slain, 
Whose native country thou hast laid in blood, 
Whose sacred person (oh !) thou hast profaned, 
Whose reign extinguished : — what was left to me, 
So highly born ? No kingdom, but revenge ; 
No treasure but thy tortures and thy groans. 
If men should ask who brought thee to thy end, 
Tell them, the Moor, and they will not despise thee. 
If cold white mortals censure this great deed, 
Warn them, they judge not of superior beings, 
Souls made of fire, and children of the sun, 
With whom revenge is virtue. Fare thee well — 



278 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Now, fully satisfied, I should take leave : 

But one thing grieves me, since thy death is near — 

I leave thee my example how to die. 

As he is going to stab himself, Alonzo rushes upon him 
to prevent him. In the mean time, enter Don Alvarez, 
attended. They disarm and seize Zanga. Alonzo 
puts the dagger in his bosom. 

Alon. No, monster, thou shalt not escape by death. 
Oh, father ! 

Alv. Oh, Alonzo ! — Isabella, 
Touched with remorse to see her mistress' pangs, 
Told all the dreadful tale. 

Alon. What groan was that ? 

Zan. As I have been a vulture to thy heart, 
So will I be a raven to thine ear, 
As true as ever snuffed the scent of blood, 
As ever flapped its heavy wing against 
The window of the sick, and croaked despair. 
Thy wife is dead. [Alvarez goes aside, and returns. 

Alv. The dreadful news is true. 

Alon. Prepare the rack ; invent new torments for him. 

Zan. This too is well. The fixed and noble mind 
Turns all occurrence to its own advantage ; 
And I'll make vengeance of calamity. 
Were I not thus reduced, thou wouldst not know, 
That, thus reduced, I dare defy thee still. 
Torture thou mayst, but thou shalt ne'er despise me. 
The blood will follow where the knife is driven, 
The flesh will quiver where the pincers tear, 
And sighs and cries by nature grow on pain. 
But these are foreign to the soul : not mine 



YOUNG. 279 

The groans that issue, or the tears that fall ; 
They disobey me ; on the rack I scorn thee, 
As when my falchion clove thy helm in battle. 

Alv. Peace, villain ! 

Zan. While I live, old man, I'll speak : 
And, well I know, thou dar'st not kill me yet; 
For that would rob. thy blood-hounds of their prey. 

Alon. Who called Alonzo? 

Alv. No one called, my son. 

Alon. Again ! 'Tis Carlos' voice, and I obey. 
Oh, how I laugh at all that this can do ! [Skozus the dagger. 
The wounds that pained, the wounds that murdered me, 
Were given before ; I am already dead ; 
This only marks my body for the grave. [Stabs himself. 
Afric, thou art revenged, — Oh, Leonora ! [Dies. 

Zan. Good ruffians, give me leave; my blood is yours, 
The wheel's prepared, and you shall have it all. 
Let me but look one moment on the dead,' [Alonzo's body. 
And pay yourselves with gazing on my pangs. [He goes to 
Is this Alonzo ? Where's the haughty mien ? 
Is that the hand which smote me ? Heavens, how pale ! 
And art thou dead ? So is my enmity. 
I war not with the dust. The great, the proud, 
The conqueror of Afric, was my foe. 
A lion preys not upon carcasses. 
This was the only method to subdue me. 
Terror and doubt fall on me : all thy good 
Now blazes, all thy guilt is in the grave. 
Never had man such funeral applause : 
If I lament thee, sure thy worth was great. 
O vengeance, I have followed thee too far, 
And to receive me, hell blows all her fires. [Exeunt. 



280 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

ttlilliam iHason. 

CARACTACUS. 

Aivfulncss of a Scene of Pagan Rites. 

This is the secret centre of the isle : 
Here, Romans, pause, and let the eye of wonder 
Gaze on the solemn scene ; behold yon oak, 
How stern he frowns, and with his broad brown arms 
Chills the pale plain beneath him : mark yon altar, 
The dark stream brawling round its rugged base ; 
These cliffs, these yawning caverns, this wide circus, 
Skirted with unhewn stone ; they awe my soul, 
As if the very genius of the place 
Himself appeared, and with terrific tread 
Stalked through his drear domain. And yet, my friends, 
If shapes like his be but the fancy's coinage, 
Surely there is a hidden power that reigns 
'Mid the lone majesty of untamed Nature, 
Controlling sober Reason ; tell me else, 
Why do these haunts of barbarous Superstition 
O'ercome me thus ? I scorn them ; yet they awe me. 



ELF RID A. 

Against Homicide. 
Think what a sea of deep perdition whelms 
The wretch's trembling soul, who launches forth 
Unlicensed to eternity. Think, think, 
And let the thought restrain thy impious hand. 
The race of man is one vast marshalled army, 



GLOVER. 281 

Summoned to pass the spacious realms of time, 
Their leader the Almighty. In that march, 
Ah ! who may quit his post ? when high in air 
The chosen archangel rides, whose right hand wields 
The imperial standard of Heaven's providence, 
Which, dreadful sweeping through the vaulted sky, 
O'ershadows all creation. 



Htri)avj& (SMcroer. 

BOADICEA. 

Solitude on a Battle-Fietd. 

I have been led by solitary care 
To yon dark branches, spreading o'er the brook 
Which murmurs through the camp ; this mighty camp, 
Where once two hundred thousand sons of war, 
With restless dins, awaked the midnight hour. 
Now horrid stillness in the vacant tents 
Sits undisturbed ; and these incessant rills, 
Whose pebbled channel breaks their shallow stream, 
Fill with their melancholy sounds my ears, 
As if I wandered, like a Icnely hind, 
O'er some dead fallow, far f om all resort : 
Unless that ever and anon a groan 
Bursts from a soldier, pillowed on his shield 
In torment, or expiring with his wounds, 
And turns my fixed attention into horror. 

Forgiveness. 

So prone to error is our mortal frame, 
Time could not step without a trace of horror, 



282 G OLDEN LEAVES. 

If wary nature on the human heart, 
Amid its wild variety of passions, 
Had not impressed a soft and yielding sense, 
That when offences give resentment birth, 
The kindly dews of penitence may raise 
The seeds of mutual mercy" and forgiveness. 



JBcurib ftlalkt. 

ALFRED THE GREAT. 

Fortitude. 

.... But, prince, remember then 
The vows, the noble tears of affliction ; 
Preserve the quick humanity it gives, 
The pitying, social sense of human weakness ; 
Yet keep thy stubborn fortitude entire. 
The manly heart that to another's woe 
Is tender, but superior to its own. 
Learn to submit, yet learn to conquer fortune ; 
Attach thee firmly to the virtuous deeds 
And offices of life ; to life itself, 
With all its vain and transient joys, sit loose. 
Chief, let devotion to the sovereign mind, 
A steady, cheerful, absolute dependence 
In his best, wisest government, possess thee. 
In thoughtless gay prosperity, when all 
Attends our wish, when naught is seen around us 
But kneeling slavery, and obedient fortune ; 
Then are blind mortals apt within themselves 
To fly their stay, forgetful of the Giver ; 



BROOKE. 283 



But when thus humbled, Alfred, as thou art, 
When to their feeble natural powers reduced, 
'Tis then they feel this universal truth, 
That Heaven is all in all, and man is nothing. 



$enrg I3rooke. 

GUSTAVUS VASA ; OR, THE DELIVERER OF HIS 
COUNTRY. 

Gustavus Vasa, King of Sweden, escapes from the hands of Chris- 
tiern, King of Denmark (who had reduced Sweden), and prevails 
upon the Dalecarlians to throw off the Danish yoke. He finally over- 
throws the Usurper, and delivers his Country. 

Mountains of Dalecarlia. — Enter Gustavus as a peasant ; 
Sivard and Dalecarlians following. 

Gust. Ye men of Sweden, wherefore are ye come ? 
See ye not yonder, how the locusts swarm, 
To drink the fountains of your honour up, 
And leave your hills a desert ? Wretched men ! 
Why came ye forth ? Is this a time for sport ? 
Or are ye met with song and jovial feast, 
To welcome your new guests, your Danish visitants ? 
To stretch your supple necks beneath their feet, 
And fawning lick the dust ? — Go, go, my countrymen, 
Each to your several mansions ; trim them out ; 
Cull all the tedious earnings of your toil, 
To purchase bondage. Bid your blooming daughters, 
And your chaste wives, to spread their beds with softness ; 
Then go ye forth, and with your proper hands 
Conduct your masters in ; conduct the sons 



284 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Of lust and violation O Swedes ! Swedes ! 

Heavens ! are ye men, and will ye suffer this ? 
There was a time, my friends, a glorious time ! 
When, had a single man of your forefathers 
Upon the frontier met a host in arms, 
His courage scarce had turned ; himself had stood, 
Alone had stood, the bulwark of his country. 
Come, come ye on, then. Here I take my stand ! 
Here on the brink, the very verge of liberty ; 
Although contention rise upon the clouds, 
Mix heaven with earth, and roll the ruin onward, 
Here will I fix, and breast me to the shock, 
Till I or Denmark fall. 
Shall we not strike for't ? 

Siv. Death ! Victory or death ! 

All. No bonds ! no bonds ! 

Am. Spoke like yourselves. Ye men of Dalecarlia, 
Brave men and bold ! whom every future age 
Shall mark for wondrous deeds, achievements won 
From honour's dangerous summit, warriors all ! 
Say, might ye choose a chief — 
Speak, name the man 
Who then should meet your wish ! 

Siv. Forbear the theme. 
Why wouldst thou seek to sink us with the weight 
Of grievous recollection ? O Gustavus ! 
Could the dead wake, thou wert the man. 

Gust. Didst thou know Gustavus? 

Siv. Know him ! O Heaven ! what else, who else was worth 
The knowledge of a soldier ? That great day, 
When Christiern, in his third attempt on Sweden, 
Had summed his powers, and weighed the scale of light ; 



BROOKE. 285 

On the bold brink, the very push of conquest, 

Gustavus rushed, and bore the battle down ; 

In his full sway of prowess, like Leviathan, 

That scoops his foaming progress on the main, 

And drives the shoals along — forward I sprung, 

All emulous, and lab'ring to attend him ; 

Fear fled before, behind him rout grew loud, 

And distant wonder gazed. At length he turned, 

And, having eyed me with a wondrous look 

Of sweetness mixed with glory — grace inestimable ! 

He plucked this bracelet from his conquering arm, 

And bound it here. My wrist seemed treble nerved : 

My heart spoke to him, and I did such deeds 

As best might thank him. — But from that blessed day 

I never saw him more — yet still to this 

I bow, as to the relics of my saint : 

Each morn I drop a tear on every bead, 

Count all the glories of Gustavus o'er, 

And think I still behold him. 

Gust. Rightly thought; 
For so thou dost, my soldier. 
Behold your general, 

Gustavus ! come once more to lead you on 
To laurelled victory, to fame, to freedom ! 

Siv. Strike me, ye powers ! — It is illusion all ! 
It cannot It is, it is ! [Falls and embraces his knees. 

Gust. Oh, speechless eloquence ! 
Rise to my arms, my friend. 

Siv. Friend ! say you friend ? 
O, my heart's lord ! my conqueror ! my 

Gust. Approach, my fellow-soldiers, your Gustavus 
Claims no precedence here. 



286 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Haste, brave men ! 

Collect your friends, to join us on the instant ; 
Summon our brethren to their share of conquest, 
And let loud echo from her circling hills 
Sound freedom, till the undulation shake 
The bounds of utmost Sweden. 

[Exeunt Dalecarhans, shouting" 



Box Jofjn $ome. 

DOUGLAS. 

Lady Randolph, Widow of Earl Douglas, is married to Lord Ran- 
dolph. During an Incursion of the Danes, Norval, a supposed 
young Peasant, fired ivith youthful ardour, seeks the Camp. On his 
ivay y he saves the Life of Randolph, ivho is attacked by Robbers 
and becomes his Favourite. Lady Randolph mourns her lost Hus- 
band and her infant Child, the Son of Douglas. A Prisoner is taken 
on the outskirts of the Camp, supposed to be one of the Robbers ivho 
attacked Lord Randolph. On the Prisoners person are found Jeiv- 
els 9 ivith the Crest of Douglas : these are conveyed to Lady Ran- 
dolph by Anna, her Confidante, and the following Scene takes place. 

Enter Servants, xvith a Prisoner. 

Pris. I know no more than does the child unborn 
Of what you charge me with. 

1 Serv. You say so, Sir ! 
But torture soon shall make you speak the truth. 
Behold, the lady of Lord Randolph comes : 
Prepare yourself to meet her just revenge. 

Enter Lady Randolph and Anna. 
Anna. Summon your utmost fortitude before 
You speak with him. Your dignity, your fame, 



HOME. 287 

Are now at stake. Think of the fatal secret, 
Which in a moment from your lips may fly. 

Lady R. Thou shalt behold me, with a desperate heart, 
Hear how my infant perished. See, he kneels. 

Pris. Heaven bless that countenance, so sweet and mild ! 
A judge like thee makes innocence more bold. 
Oh, save me, lady, from these cruel men, 
Who have attacked and seized me ; who accuse 
Me of intended murder. As I hope 
For mercy at the judgment-seat of Heaven, 
The tender lamb, that never nipped the grass, 
Is not more innocent than I of murder. 

Lady R. Of this man's guilt what proof can ye produce ? 

1 Serv. We found him lurking in the hollow glen. 
W r hen viewed and called upon, amazed he fled ; 
We overtook him, and inquired from whence 
And what he was : he said he came from far, 
And was upon his journey to the camp. 
Not satisfied with this, we searched his clothes, 
And found these jewels, whose rich value plead 
Most powerfully against him. Hard he seems, 
And old in villany. Permit us try 
His stubbornness against the torture's force. 

Pris, Oh, gentle lady ! by your lord's dear life, 
Which these weak hands, I swear, did ne'er assail, 
And by your children's welfare, spare my age I 
Let not the iron tear my ancient joints, 
And my gray hairs bring to the grave with pain. 

Lady R. Account for these ; thine own they cannot be : 
For these, I say : be steadfast to the truth ; 
Detected falsehood is most certain death. 

[Anna removes the Servants, and returns. 



288 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Pris. Alas ! I'm sore beset. Let never man, 
For sake of lucre, sin against his soul ! 
Eternal Justice is in this most just ! 
I, guiltless now, must former guilt reveal. 

Lady R. O, Anna, hear ! once more I charge thee, speak 
The truth direct ; for these to me foretell 
And certify a part of thy narration, 
With which, if the remainder tallies not, 
An instant and a dreadful death abides thee. 

Pris. Then, thus adjured, I'll speak to you as just 
As if you were the minister of Heaven, 
Sent down to search the secret sins of men. 
Some eighteen years ago, I rented land 
Of brave Sir Malcolm, then Balarmo's lord ; 
But, falling to decay, his servants seized 
All that I had, and then turned me and mine 
(Four helpless infants and their weeping mother) 
Out to the mercy of the winter winds. 
A little hovel by the river's side 
Received us ; there hard labour, and the skill 
In fishing, which was formerly my sport, 
Supported life. Whilst thus we poorly lived, 
One stormy night, as I remember well, 
The wind and rain beat hard upon our roof; 
Red came the river down, and loud and oft 
The angry spirit of the water shrieked. 
At the dead hour of night was heard the cry 
Of one in jeopardy. I rose, and ran 
To where the circling eddy of a pool, 
Beneath the ford, used oft to bring within 
My reach whatever floating thing the stream 
Had caught. The voice was ceased ; the person lost ; 



HOME. 289 

But, looking sad and earnest on the waters, 

By the moon's light I saw, whirled round and round, 

A basket : soon I drew it to the bank, 

And, nestled curious, there an infant lay. 

Lady R. Was he alive ? 

Pris. He was. 

Lady R. Inhuman that thou art ! 
How couldst thou kill what waves and tempests spared ? 

Pris. I am not so inhuman. 
The needy man who has known better days, 
One whom distress has spited at the world, 
Is he whom tempting fiends would pitch upon 
To do such deeds as make the prosperous men 
Lift up their heads, and wonder who could do them. 
And such a man was I : a man declined, 
Who saw no end of black adversity : 
Yet, for the wealth of kingdoms, I would not 
Have touched that infant with a hand of harm. 

Lady R. Ha ! dost thou say so ? then perhaps he lives ! 

Pris. Not many days ago he was alive. 

Lady R. O God of heaven ! did he then die so lately ? 

Pris. I did not say he died ; I hope he lives. 
Not many days ago these eyes beheld 
Him flourishing in youth, and health, and beauty. 

Lady R. Where is he now ? 

Pris. Alas ! I know not where. 

Lady R. O Fate ! I fear thee still. Thou riddler, speak 
Direct and clear ; else I will search thy soul. 

Pris. Fear not my faith, though I must speak my shame ; 
Within the cradle where the infant lay, 
Was stowed a mighty store of gold and jewels ; 
Tempted by which, we did resolve to hide 



290 GOLDEN LEAVES, 

From all the world this wonderful event, 

And like a peasant breed the noble child. 

That none might mark the change of our estate, 

We left the country, travelled to the north, 

Bought flocks and herds, and gradually brought forth 

Our secret wealth. But God's all-seeing eye 

Beheld our avarice, and smote us sore : 

For, one by one, all our own children died, 

And he, the stranger, sole remained the heir 

Of what indeed was his. Fain then would I, 

Who with a father's fondness loved the boy, 

Have trusted him, now in the dawn of youth, 

With his own secret : but my anxious wife, 

Foreboding evil, never would consent. 

Meanwhile the stripling grew in years and beauty ; 

And, as we oft observed, he bore himself, 

Not as the offspring of our cottage blood ; 

For nature will break out : mild with the mild, 

But with the froward he was fierce as fire ; 

And night and day he talked of war and arms. 

I set myself against his warlike bent, 

But all in vain : for when a desperate band 

Of robbers from the savage mountains came 

Lady R. Eternal Providence ! what is thy name ? 

Pris. My name is Norval ; and my name he bears. 

Lady R. 'Tis he — 'tis he himself! It is my son ! 
O Sovereign Mercy ! 'twas my child I saw ! 

Pris. If I, amidst astonishment and fear, 
Have of your words and gestures rightly judged, 
Thou art the daughter of my ancient master; 
The child I rescued from the flood is thine. 

Lady R. With thee, dissimulation now were vain. 



HOME. 291 

I am indeed the daughter of Sir Malcolm ; 
The child thou rescuedst from the flood is mine. 

Pris. Blest be the hour that made me a poor man ; 
My poverty hath saved my master's house ! 

Lady R. Thy words surprise me ; sure thou dost not 
feign ! 
The tear stands in thine eye ; such love from thee 
Sir Malcolm's house deserved not, if aright 
Thou told'st the story of thy own distress. 

Pris, Sir Malcolm of our barons was the flower ; 
The safest friend, the best, the kindest master ; 
But, ah ! he knew not of my sad estate. 
After that battle, where his gallant son, 
Your own brave brother, fell, the good old lord 
Grew desperate and reckless of the world ; 
And never, as he erst was wont, went forth 
To overlook the conduct of his servants. 
By them I was thrust out, and them I blame : 
May Heaven so judge me as I judge my master, 
x^nd God so love me as I love his race ! 

Lady R. His race shall yet reward thee. On thy faith 
Depends the fate of thy loved master's house. 
Rememb'rest thou a little, lonely hut, 
That like a holy hermitage appears 
Among the cliffs of Carron ? 

Pris, I remember the cottage of the cliffs. 

Lady R. 'Tis that I mean : 
There dwells a man of venerable age, 
Who in my father's service spent his youth : 
Tell him I sent thee, and with him remain, 
Till I shall call upon thee to declare, 
Before the king and nobles, what thou now 



292 GOLDEN LEAVES, 

To me hast told. No more but this, and thou 
Shalt live in honour all thy future days : 
Thy son so long shall call thee father still, 
And all the land shall bless the man who saved 
The son of Douglas, and Sir Malcolm's heir. 
Remember well my words'; if thou shouldst meet 
Him whom thou call'st thy son, still call him so ; 
And mention nothing of his nobler father. 

Pris. Fear not that I shall mar so fair a harvest, 
By putting in my sickle ere 'tis ripe. 
Why I did leave my home and ancient dame 
To find the youth, to tell him all I knew, 
And make him wear these jewels on his arm; 
Which might, I thought, be challenged, and so bring 
To light the secret of his noble birth. 

[Lady Randolph goes towards the Servants, 

Lady R. This man is not the assassin you suspected, 
Though chance combined some likelihood against him. 
He is the faithful bearer of the jewels 
To their right owner, whom in haste he seeks. 
'Tis meet that you should put him on his way, 
Since your mistaken zeal hath dragged him hither. 

[Exeunt Prisoner and Servants. 
My faithful Anna, dost thou share my joy ? 
I know thou dost. Unparalleled event ! 
Reaching from heaven to earth, Jehovah's arm 
Snatched from the waves, and brings me to my son ! 
Judge of the widow, and the orphan's Father, 
Accept a widow's and a mother's thanks 
For such a gift ! What does my Anna think 
Of the young eaglet of a valiant nest ? 
How soon he gazed on bright and burning arms, 



THOMSOX. 293 

Spurned the low dunghill where his fate had thrown him, 
And towered up to the regions of his sire ! 

Anna, How fondly did your eyes devour the boy ! 
Mysterious Nature, with the unseen cord 
Of powerful instinct, drew you to your own. 

Lady R. The ready story of his birth believed, 
Suppressed my fancy quite ; nor did he owe 
To any likeness my so sudden favour : 
But now I long to see his face again, 
Examine every feature, and find out 
The lineaments of Douglas, or my own. 
But, most of all, I long to let him know 
Who his true parents are, to clasp his neck, 
And tell him all the story of his father. 

Anna. With wary caution you must bear yourself 
In public, lest your tenderness break forth, 
And in observers stir conjectures strange. 
To-day the baron started at your tears. * 

Lady R. He did so, Anna ; well thy mistress knows 
If the least circumstance, mote of offence, 
Should touch the baron's eye, his sight would be 
With jealousy disordered. But the more 
It does behoove me instant to declare 
The birth of Douglas, and assert his rights. . . . 



lames (Jtyomson. 

EDWARD AND ELEONORA. 

The Crusades. 
.... Sure I am 'tis madness, 
Inhuman madness, thus from half the world 



294 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

To drain its blood and treasure, to neglect 

Each art of peace, each care of government ; 

And all for what ? By spreading desolation, 

Rapine, and slaughter o'er the other half, 

To gain a conquest we can never hold. 

I venerate this land. Those sacred hills, 

Those vales, those cities, trod by saints and prophets, 

By God Himself, the scenes of heavenly wonders, 

Inspire me with a certain awful joy. 

But the same God, my friend, pervades, sustains, 

Surrounds, and fills this universal frame ; 

And every land, where spreads His vital presence, 

His all-enlivening breath, to me is holy. 

Excuse me, Theald, if I go too far : 

I meant alone to say, I think these wars 

A kind of persecution. And when that — 

That most absurd and cruel of all vices, 

Is once begun, where shall it find an end ? 

Each, in his turn, or has or claims a right 

To wield its dagger, to return its furies, 

And first or last they fall upon ourselves. 



TANCRED AND S I G I S M U N D A. 

Miscalculations of Old Aden. 

Those old men, those plodding, grave state pedants, 
Forget the course of youth ; their crooked prudence, 
To baseness verging still, forgets to take 
Into their fine-spun schemes the generous heart, 
That, through the cobweb system bursting, lays 
Their labours waste. 



MURPUY. 295 

SOPHONISB A. 

Love. 

Why should we kill the best of passions. Love ? 
It aids the hero, bids Ambition rise 
To nobler heights, inspires immortal deeds, 
Even softens brutes, and adds a grace to Virtue. 



3lrtf)ur fHurpfyg. 

THE GRECIAN DAUGHTER. 

The Fable of this Tragedy is founded on the tuell-kncivn Historical In- 
cident of the filial Piety of the Grecian Daughter, Euphrasia, pre- 
serving the Life of her Father, Evander, condemned to Death by 
Starvation, by Dionysius, King of Syracuse^ Euphrasia obtains 
permission from Philotas to visit her Father in Prison, conducted by 
Arcas, an Officer of the Court. 

Scene — The Cavern where Evander is confined. 
Enter Arcas and Euphrasia. 

Arc. No ; on my life, I dare not. 

Euph. But a small, 
A wretched pittance ; one poor cordial drop 
To renovate exhausted, drooping age. 
I ask no more. 

Arc. Not the smallest store 
Of scanty nourishment must pass these walls. 
Our lives were forfeit else : a moment's parley 
Is all I grant ; in yonder cave he lies. 



20 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Evan. [Within the Cell.'] O struggling nature! let thy 
Oh ! give me, give me rest. [ conflict end. 

Eupk. My father's voice ! 
It pierces here ! it cleaves my very heart. 
I shall expire, and never see him more. 

Arc. Repose thee, princess, here [Draws a couch] ; here 
rest thy limbs, 
Till the returning blood shall lend thee firmness. 

Euph. The caves, the rocks, re-echo to his groans ! 
And is there no relief? 

Arc. All I can grant 
You shall command. I will unbar the dungeon, 
Unloose the chain that binds him to the rock, 
And leave your interview without restraint. 

[Opens a Cell in the back scene. 

Euph. Hold, hold, my heart ! Oh ! how shall I sustain 
The agonizing scene ! [i&y&y.] I must behold him : 
Nature, that drives me on, will lend me force. 
Is that my father ? 

Arc. Take your last farewell. 
His vigour seems not yet exhausted quite. 
You must be brie£ or ruin will ensue. [Exit. 

Evan. [Raising himself.] Oh ! when shall I get free ? — 
These ling'ring pangs — 
Dispatch me, pitying gods, and save my child ! 
I burn, I burn; alas ! no place of rest: [Comes out. 

A little air ; once more a breath of air ; 
Alas ! I faint ; I die. 

Euph. Heart-piercing sight ! 
Let me support you, Sir. 

Evan. Oh ! lend your arm. 
Whoe'er thou art, I thank thee; that kind breeze 



MURPHY. 297 

Comes gently o'er my senses — lead me forward : 

And is there left one charitable hand 

To reach its succours to a wretch like me ? 

Euph. Well may st thou ask it. O my breaking heart ! 
The hand of death is on him. 

Evan, Still a little, 
A little onward to the air conduct me; 
'Tis well ; — I thank thee ; thou art kind and good, 
And much I wonder at this gen'rous pity. 

Eupk. Do you not know me, Sir ? 

Evan. Me thinks I know 
That voice : art thou — alas ! my eyes are dim ! 
Each object swims before me — No, in truth, 
I do not know thee. 

Euph. Not your own Euphrasia ? 

Evan. Art thou my daughter ? 

Euph. Oh, my honoured sire ! 

Evan. My daughter, my Euphrasia ! come to close 
A father's eyes ! Given to my last embrace ! 
Gods ! do I hold her once again ? Your mercies 
Are without number. [Falls on the couch. 

I would pour my praise ; 
But, oh, your goodness overcomes me quite ! 
You read my heart ; you see what passes there. 

Euph. Alas, he faints ; the gushing tide of transport 
Bears down each feeble sense : restore him, Heaven ! 

Evan. All, my Euphrasia, all will soon be well. 
Pass but a moment, and this busy globe, 
Its thrones, its empires, and its bustling millions, 
Will seem a speck in the great void of space. 
Yet while I stay, thou darling of my age ! 
Nay, dry those tears. 



298 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Euph. I will, my father. 

Evan. Where, 
I fear to ask it, where is virtuous Phocion ? 

Euph, Fled from the tyrant's power. 

Evan. And left thee here 
Exposed and helpless ? 

Euph. He is all truth and honour : 
He fled to save my child. 

Evan. My young Evander ! 
Your boy is safe, Euphrasia ? — Oh ! my heart ! 
Alas ! quite gone ; worn out with misery ; 
Oh, weak, decayed old man ! 

Euph. Inhuman wretches ! 
Will none relieve his want ? A drop of water 
Might save his life ; and even that's denied him. 

Evan. These strong emotions — Oh ! that eager air — 
It is too much — assist me ; bear me hence ; 
And lay me down in peace. 

Euph. His eyes are fixed; 
And those pale quivering lips ! He clasps my hand; 
What, no assistance ! Monsters, will you thus 
Let him expire in these weak, feeble arms ? 

Enter Philotas. 

Phil. Those wild, those piercing shrieks will give th' 
alarm. 

Euph. Support him ; bear him hence ; 'tis all I ask. 

Evan. [As he is carried qff.~] O death ! where art 

, thou ? Death, thou dread of guilt, 
Thou wish of innocence, affliction's friend, 
Tired nature calls thee ; come, in mercy come, 
And lay me pillowed in eternal rest. 



MURPHY. 299 

My child, where art thou ? give me; reach thy hand; 

Why dost thou weep ? My eyes are dry — Alas ! 

Quite parched my lips — quite parched, they cleave together. 

[Exeunt. 
Re-enter Philotas. 

Phil. Oh, I can hold no more ! at such a sight 
E'en the hard heart of tyranny would melt 
To infant softness. Areas, go behold 
The pious fraud of charity and love ; 
Behold that unexampled goodness ; see 
Th' expedient sharp necessity has taught her ; 
Thy heart will burn, will melt, will yearn to view 
A child like her. 

Arc. Ha ! — Say what mystery 
Wakes these emotions ? 

Phil. Wonder-working Virtue ! 
The father fostered at his daughter's breast ! 

filial piety ! — The milk designed 

For her own offspring, on the parent's lip 
Allays the parching fever. All her laws 
Inverted quite, great nature triumphs still. 

Arc. The tale unmans my soul. 

Phil. Ye tyrants, hear it, 
And learn, that while your cruelty prepares 
Unheard-of torture, Virtue can keep pace 
With your worst efforts, and can try new modes 
To bid men grow enamoured of her charms. 

Arc. Philotas, for Euphrasia, in her cause 

1 now can hazard all. Let us preserve 
Her father for her. 

Phil. Oh ! her lovely daring 
Transcends all praise. By Heaven, he shall not die. 



300 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Arc. And yet we must be wary. I'll go forth, 
And first explore each avenue around, 
Lest the fixed sentinel obstruct your purpose, [Exit, 

Phil. I thank thee, Areas ; we will act like men 
Who feel for others' woes — She leads him forth, 
And tremblingly supports his drooping age. 

Re-enter Euphrasia and Evander. 

Evan. Euphrasia, oh, my child ! returning life 
Glows here about my heart. Conduct me forward ; 
At the last gasp preserved ! Ha ! dawning light ! 
Let me behold ; in faith, I see thee now ; 
I do indeed : the father sees his child. 

Euph. I have relieved him — Oh, the joy's too great; 
'Tis speechless rapture ! 

Evan. Blessings, blessings on thee ! 

Euph. My father still shall live. Alas, Philotas ! 
Could I abandon that white, hoary head, 
That venerable form ? — Abandon him 
To perish here in misery and famine ? 

PhiL Thy tears, thou miracle of goodness ! 
Have triumphed o'er me. Take him, take your father ; 
Convey him hence ; I do release him to you. 

Evan. What said Philotas ? Do I fondly dream ? 
Indeed, my senses are imperfect; yet 
Methought I heard him ! Did he say, release me ? 

PhiL Thou art my king, and now no more my prisoner : 
Go with your daughter, with that wondrous pattern 
Of filial piety to after times. 

Yes, princess, lead him forth ; I'll point the path, 
Whose soft declivity will guide your steps 
To the deep vale, which these o'erhanging rocks 



HA N NA H M R B. 301 

Encompass round. You may convey him thence 
To some safe shelter. Yet a moment's pause ; 
I must conceal your flight from ev'ry eye. 
Yes, I will save, or perish in their cause. 



$cmnal) fflore. 

PERCY. 

The Fends of the rival Houses of Percy and Douglas have furnished 
the materials for this Tragedy. Elwina, the Daughter of Earl Raby, 
<zvas betrothed to Earl Percy. In consequence of her Fathers De- 
pendents having received an insult from the Followers of Percy, the 
Match is broken off by Earl Raby, and Percy joins the Crusaders 
in the Holy Land. During his absence, Elwina is compelled to 
marry Earl Douglas. Shortly after, Percy returns, and seeks an 
Interview with Elwina, being ignorant of her Marriage. Percy 
is accompanied by his Friends, Sir Hubert and Harcourt. 

Scene I. — A Garden at Raby Castle, with a Bower. 

Enter Percy. 

Per. . . . She comes ! by all my hopes, she comes ! 
'Tis she — the blissful vision is Elwina ! 
But ah ! what mean those tears ? — She weeps for me ! 
O transport ! — go. I'll listen unobserved, 
And for a moment taste the precious joy, 
The banquet of a tear which falls for love. 

[Percy goes into the bower. 

Enter Elwina. 
Elw. Shall I not weep ? and have I then no cause ? 
If I could break the eternal bands of death, 



302 G OLDEN LEAVES. 

And wrench the sceptre from his iron grasp ; 
If I could bid the yawning sepulchre 
Restore to life its long-committed dust 5 
If I could teach the slaughtering hand of war 
To give me back my dear, my murdered Percy, 
Then I indeed might once more cease to weep. 

[Percy comes out of the bower. 

Per. Then cease, for Percy lives. 

Elzv. Protect me, Heaven ! 

Per. O joy unspeakable ! My life, my love ! 
End of my toils, and crown of all my cares ! 
Kind as consenting peace, as conquest bright, 
Dearer than arms, and lovelier than renown ! 

Elzv. It is his voice — it is, it is my Percy ! 
And dost thou live ? 

Per. I never lived till now. 

Elzv. And did my sighs, and did my sorrows reach thee ? 
And art thou come at last to dry my tears ? 
How didst thou 'scape the fury of the foe ? 

Per. Thy guardian genius hovered o'er the field, 
And turned the hostile spear from Percy's breast, 
Lest thy fair image should be wounded there. 
But Harcourt should have told thee all my fate, 
How I survived 

Elzv. Alas ! I have not seen him. 
Oh ! I have suffered much. 

Per. Of that no more ; 
For every minute of our future lives 
Shall be so blessed, that we will learn to wonder 
How we could ever think we were unhappy. 

Elzv. Percy — 1 cannot speak. 

Per. Those tears how eloquent ! 



HANNAH MORE. 303 

I would not change this motionless, mute joy, 
For the sweet strains of angels : I look down 
With pity on the rest of human kind, 
However great may be their fame of happiness, 
And think their niggard fate has given them nothing, 
Not giving thee ; or, granting some small blessing, 
Denies them my capacity to feel it. 

Elzv. Alas ! what mean you ? 

Per. Can I speak my meaning? 
'Tis of such magnitude that words would wrong it ; 
But surely my Elwina's faithful bosom 
Should beat in kind responses of delight, 
And feel, but never question, what I mean. 

Elzv. Hold, hold, my heart, thou hast much more to suffer ! 

Per. Let the slow form, and tedious ceremony, 
Wait on the splendid victims of ambition. 
Love stays for none of these. Thy father's softened ; 
He will forget the fatal Cheviot chace ; 
Raby is brave, and I have served my country : 
I would not boast, it was for thee I conquered ; 
Then come, my love. 

Elzv. Oh, never, never, never ! 

Per. Am I awake ? is that Elwina's voice ? 

Elzv. Percy, thou most adored, and most deceived ! 
If ever fortitude sustained thy soul, 
When vulgar minds have sunk beneath the stroke, 
Let thy imperial spirit now support thee. — 
If thou canst be so wondrous merciful, 
Do not, oh, do not curse me ! but thou wilt, 
Thou must; for I have done a fearful deed, 
A deed of wild despair, a deed of horror. 
I am, I am — 
H 



3Q4 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Per. Speak, say, what art thou ? 

Elzv. Married! 

Per. Oh! 

Elzv. Percy, I think I begged thee not to curse me ; 
But now I do revoke the fond petition. 
Speak! ease thy bursting -soul ; reproach, upbraid, 
O'erwhelm me with thy wrongs — I'll bear it all. 

Per. Open, thou earth, and hide me from her sight; 
Didst thou not bid me curse thee ? 

Elzv. Mercy ! mercy ! 

Per. And have I 'scaped the Saracen's fell sword 
Only to perish by Elwina's guilt ? 
I would have bared my bosom to the foe, 
I would have died, had I but known you wished it. 

Elzv. Percy, I loved thee most when most I wronged thee; 
Yes, by these tears I did. 

Per. Married ! just Heaven ! 
Married ! to whom ? Yet wherefore should I know ? 
It cannot add fresh horrors to thy crime, 
Or my destruction. 

Elzv. Oh ! 'twill add to both. 
How shall I tell ! Prepare for something dreadful. 
Hast thou not heard of — Douglas ? 

Per. Why, 'tis well ! 
Thou awful Power, why waste thy wrath on me ? 
Why arm omnipotence to crush a worm ? 
I could have fallen without this waste of ruin. 
Married to Douglas ! by my wrongs, I like it ; 
'Tis perfidy complete, 'tis finished falsehood, 
,r Tis adding fresh perdition to the sin, 
And filling up the measure of offence ! 

Elzv. Oh ! 'twas my father's deed ! he made his child 



HANNAH MORE. 305 

An instrument of vengeance on thy head. 

He wept and threatened, soothed me, and commanded. 

Per. And you complied, most duteously complied ! 

Elzv. I could withstand his fury; but his tears, 
Ah, they undid me ! Percy, dost thou know 
The cruel tyranny of tenderness ? 
Hast thou e'er felt a father's warm embrace ? 
Hast thou e'er seen a father's flowing tears, 
And known that thou couldst wipe those tears away ? 
If thou hast felt, and and hast resisted these, 
Then thou mayst curse my weakness ; but if not, 
Thou canst not pity, for thou canst not judge. 

Per. Let me not hear the music of thy voice, 
Or I shall love thee still; I shall forget 
Thy fatal marriage and my savage wrongs. 

Elzv. Dost thou not hate me, Percy ? 

Per. Hate thee ? Yes, 
As dying martyrs hate the righteous cause * 
Of that blest power for whom they bleed — I hate thee. 

[ They look at each other with silent agony. 

Enter Harcourt. 

Har. Forgive, my lord, your faithful knight 

Per. Come, Harcourt, 
Come, and behold the wretch who once was Percy. 

Har. With grief I've learned the whole unhappy tale. 
Earl Douglas, whose suspicion never sleeps 

Per. What, is the tyrant jealous ? 

Elzv. Hear him, Percy. 

Per. I will command my rage. — Go on. 

Har. Earl Douglas 
Knew, by my arms and my accoutrements, 



306 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

That I belonged to you ; he questioned much, 
And much he menaced me, but both alike 
In vain ; he then arrested and confined me. 

Per. Arrest my knight ! The Scot shall answer it ! 

Elw. How came you now released ? 

Har. Your noble father 
Obtained my freedom, having learned from Hubert 
The news of Percy's death. The good old lord, 
Hearing the king's return, has left the castle 
To do him homage. 
[To Percy.] Sir, you had best retire; 
Your safety is endangered by your stay. 
I fear, should Douglas know 

Per. Should Douglas know ! 
Why, what new magic's in the name of Douglas, 
That it should strike Northumberland with fear ? 
Go, seek the haughty Scot, and tell him — no — 
Conduct me to his presence. 

Elw. Percy, hold! 
Think not 'tis Douglas — 'tis — 

Per. I know it well 

Thou mean'st to tell me 'tis Elwina's husband ; 
But that inflames me to superior madness. 
This happy husband, this triumphant Douglas, 
Shall not insult my misery with his bliss. 
I'll blast the golden promise of his joys. 
Conduct me to him — nay, I will have way — 
Come, let us seek this husband, 

Elw. Percy, hear me : 
When I was robbed of all my peace of mind, 
My cruel fortune left me still one blessing, 
One solitary blessing, to console me ; 



HANNAH MORE. 307 

It was my fame. — 'Tis a rich jewel, Percy, 

And I must keep it spotless, and unsoiled : 

But thou wouldst plunder what e'en Douglas spared, 

And rob this single gem of all its brightness. 

Per. Go — thou wast born to rule the fate of Percy. 
Thou art my conqueror still. 

Elw. What noise is that ? 

[Harcourt goes to the side of the stage. 

Per. Why art thou thus alarmed ? 

Elw. Alas ! I feel 
The cowardice and terrors of the wicked, 
Without their sense of guilt. 

Har. My lord, 'tis Douglas. 

Elw. Fly, Percy, and forever ! 

Per. Fly from Douglas ? 

Elw. Then stay, barbarian, and at once destroy 
My life and fame. 

Per. That thought is death. I go : * 
My honour to thy dearer honour yields. 

Elw. Yet, thou art not gone 1 

Per. Farewell, farewell ! [Exit Percy. 

Elw. I dare not meet the searching eye of Douglas. 

I must conceal my terrors. 

Douglas at the side, with his sword drawn; Edric holds 

him. 
Dou. Give me way. 

Edr. Thou shalt not enter. 

Dou. [Struggling with Edric] If there were no hell, 
It would defraud my vengeance of its edge, 
And she should live. 

[Breaks from Edric, and comes forward. 
Cursed chance ! he is not here. 



308 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Elzv. [Going.] I dare not meet his fury. 

Dou. See ! she flies 
With every mark of guilt. — Go, search the bower, 

[Aside to Edric. 
He shall not thus escape. Madam, return. [Aloud. 

Now, honest Douglas, learn of her to feign. [Aside. 

Alone, Elwina ? who had just parted hence ? 

[With affected composure. 

Elzv. My lord, 'twas Harcourt; sure, you must have 
met him. 

Dou. O exquisite dissembler ! [Aside.] No one else ! 

Elzv. My lord! 

Dou. How I enjoy her criminal confusion ! [Aside. 

You tremble, Madam. 

Elzv. Wherefore should I tremble ? 
By your permission Harcourt was admitted ; 
'Twas no mysterious, secret introduction. 

Dou. And yet you seem alarmed. If Harcourt's presence 
Thus agitates each nerve, makes every pulse 
Thus wildly throb, and the warm tides of blood 
Mount in quick rushing tumults to your cheek ; 
If friendship can excite such strong emotions, 
What tremors had a lover's presence caused ! 

Elzv. Ungenerous man ! 

Dou. I feast upon her terrors. [Aside. 

The story of his death was well contrived ; [ To her. 

But it affects not me ; I have a wife, 
Compared with whom cold Dian was unchaste. 

[ Takes her hand. 
But mark me well — though it concerns not you — 
If there's a sin more deeply black than others, 
Distinguished from the list of common crimes, 



COLMAN. 309 

A legion in itself, and doubly dear 

To the dark Prince of hell, it is — hypocrisy ! 

[ Throws her from him, and exit. 
Elw. Yes, I will bear this fearful indignation ! 
. Thou melting heart, be firm as adamant; 
Ye shattered nerves, be strung with manly force, 
That I may conquer all my sex's weakness, 
Nor let this bleeding bosom lodge one thought, 
Cherish one wish, or harbour one desire, 
That angels may not hear, and Douglas know. [Exit* 

Percy meets Earl Douglas in single combat, and is slain. Douglas 
then discovers the innocence of Elv/is A, ivho dies of grief. 



(&zqx%£ (Eolman. 

THE IRON CHEST: 



Sir Edward Mortimer, in an accidental Encounter ivith his Enemy, 
kills him. The Secret of the Murderer is preserved, but Sir Edward 
becomes a Prey to Remorse and Misanthropy. His Secretary, Wil- 
ford, ivatches his Employer with unceasing Scrutiny and Suspicion. 
Sir Edward, conscious of Wilford's Suspicions, determines to confess 
his Crime, and appoints a Meeting ivith Wilford in the Library. 

Sir Edward Mortimer, Wilford. 

Enter Sir Edward Mortimer at the door of the Library , 
which he locks after him. Wilford turns round on 
hearing him shut it. 

Wilf What's that ? 'Tis he himself. Mercy on me ! 
He has locked the door ! what is going to become of me ! 
Mori. Wilford ! is no one in the picture-gallery ? 



310 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Wilf. No, not a soul, Sir — not a human soul ; 
None within hearing, if I were to bawl 
Ever so loud. 

Mart. Lock yonder door. 

Wtlf. The door, Sir ? 

Mort. Do as I bid you." [hand. 

Wtlf. What, Sir ? lock — [Mortimer waves with his 
I shall, Sir. [Going to the door y and locking it 

His face has little anger in it, neither ; 
*Tis rather marked with sorrow and distress. 

Mort. Wilfbrd, approach me. What am I to say 
For aiming at your life ? Do you not scorn me, 
Despise me for it ? 

Wilf. I! oh, Sir! 

Mort. You must; 
For I am singled from the herd of men, 
A vile, heart-broken wretch ! 

Wilf. Indeed, indeed, Sir, 
You deeply wrong yourself. Your equal's love, 
The poor man's prayer, the orphan's tear of gratitude, 
All follow you : and I — I owe you all ; 
I am most bound to bless you. 

Mort. Mark me, Wi]ford : 
I know the value of the orphan's tear ; 
The poor man's prayer ; respect from the respected ; 
I feel, to merit these, and to obtain them, 
Is to taste here, below, that thrilling cordial 
Which the remunerating angel draws 
From the eternal fountain of delight, 
To pour on blessed souls, that enter heaven. 
I feel this — I ! how must my nature, then, 
Revolt at him who seeks to stain his hand 



COL MA X. 3 ■ l 

In human blood ! And yet it seems, this day 

I sought your life. Oh, I have suffered madness ! 

None know my tortures — pangs ; but I can end them — 

End them as far as appertains to thee. 

I have resolved it. Hell-born struggles tear me ; 

But I have pondered on't, and I must trust thee. 

Wilf Your confidence shall not be — 

Mort. You must swear. 

Wilf. Swear, Sir ! will nothing but an oath, then — 

Mort. Listen ! 
May all the ills that wait on frail humanity 
Be doubled on your head, if you disclose 
My fatal secret ! may your body turn 
Most lazar-like and loathsome, and your mind 
More loathsome than your body ! May those fiends 
Who strangle babes, for very wantonness, 
Shrink back and shudder at your monstrous crimes, 
And, shrinking, curse you ! palsies strike your youth, 
And the sharp terrors of a guilty mind 
Poison your aged days ; while all your nights, 
As on the earth you lay your houseless head, 
Out-horror horror ! May you quit the world 
Abhorred, self-hated, hopeless for the next, 
Your life a burthen and your death a fear ! 

Wilf. For mercy's sake, forbear ! you terrify me ! 

MorL Hope this may fall upon thee ; swear thou hopest 
it, 
By every attribute which heaven, earth, hell, 
Can lend, to bind and strengthen conjuration, 
If thou betray'st me. 

Wilf. Well, I— [Hesitating 

Mort. No retreating ! 
14* 



312 G OLDEN LEAVES. 

Wilf [after a pause.] I swear, by all the ties that bind 
a man, 
Divine or human, never to divulge ! 

Mort. Remember, you have sought this secret : yes, 
Extorted it. I have not thrust it on you. 
"Tis big with danger to you ; and to me, 
While I prepare to speak, torment unutterable. 
Know, Wilford, that — damnation ! 

Wilf. Dearest Sir, 
Collect yourself. This shakes you horribly. 
You had this trembling, it is scarce a week, 
At Madam Helen's. 

Mort. There it is. Her uncle — 

Wilf. Her uncle ! 

Mort. Him. She knows it not; none know it; 
You are the first ordained to hear me say, 
I am his murderer. 

Wilf O Heaven ! 

Mort. His assassin. 

Wilf What ! you that — mur the murder 1 am 

choked ! 

Mort. Honour, thou blood-stained god ! at whose red altar 
Sit War and Homicide, oh, to what madness 
Will insult drive thy votaries ! By Heaven, 
In the world's range there does not breathe a man 
Whose brutal nature I more strove to soothe, 
With long forbearance, kindness, courtesy, 
Than his who fell by me. But he disgraced me, 
Stained me. O death and shame ! the world looked on, 
And saw this sinewy savage strike me down ; 
Rain blows upon me, drag me to and fro 
On the base earth like carrion. Desperation, 



COL MA N. 313 

In every fibre of my frame, cried vengeance ! 
I left the room which he had quitted : chance — 
Curse on the chance ! — while boiling with my wrongs, 
Thrust me against him, darkling, in the street : 
I stabbed him to the heart : and my oppressor 
Rolled, lifeless, at my foot. 

Wilf. Oh, mercy on me ! 
How could this deed be covered ? 

Mort Would you think it ? 
E'en at the moment when I gave the blow, 
Butchered a fellow-creature in the dark, 
I had all good men's love. But my disgrace, 
And my opponent's death, thus linked with it, 
Demanded notice of the magistracy. 
They summoned me, as friend would summon friend, 
To acts of import and communication. 
We met : and 'twas resolved, to stifle rumour, 
To put me on my trial. No accuser, 
No evidence appeared, to urge it on : 
'Twas meant to clear my fame. How clear it then ? 
How cover it ? you say. Why, by a lie — 
Guilt's offspring, and its guard. I taught this breast, 
Which Truth once made her throne, to forge a lie ; 
This tongue to utter it ; rounded a tale, 
Smooth as a seraph's song from Satan's mouth ; 
So well compacted, that the o'erthronged court 
Disturbed cool Justice in her judgment-seat, 
By shouting, <c Innocence !" ere I had finished. 
The court enlarged me ; and the giddy rabble 
Bore me in triumph home. Ay, look upon me/ 
1 know thy sight aches at me. 

Wilf. Heaven forgive me ! 



3H GOLDEN LEAVES. 

I think I love you still : but I am young ; 
I know not what to say : it may be wrong ; 
Indeed, I pity you. 

Mart. I disdain all pity ; 
I ask no consolation. Idle boy ! 
Think'st thou that this compulsive confidence 
Was given to move thy pity ? Love of fame — 
For still I cling to it — has urged me thus 
To quash thy curious mischief in its birth. 
Hurt honour, in an evil, cursed hour, 
Drove me to murder — lying : 'twould again. 
My honesty, sweet peace of mind, all, all 
Are bartered for a name. I will maintain it. 
Should Slander whisper o'er my sepulchre, 
And my soul's agency survive in death, 
I could embody it with Heaven's lightning, 
And the hot shaft of my insulted spirit 
Should strike the blaster of my memory 
Dead in the churchyard ! Boy, I would not kill thee ; 
Thy rashness and discernment threatened danger; 
To check them there was no way left but this, 
Save one — your death : you shall not be my victim. 

Wilf. My death ! what, take my life ? my life to prop 
This empty honour ? 

Mort. Empty ? — grovelling fool ! 

Wilf. I am your servant, Sir ; child of your bounty, 
And know my obligation. I have been 
Too curious, haply ; 'tis the fault of youth. 
I ne'er meant injury : if it would serve you, 
I would lay down my life ; I'd give it freely : 
Could you, then, have the heart to rob me of it ? 
You could not — should not. 



L MA N. 315 

Mort. How! 

Wilf. You dare not. 

Mort. Dare not ! 

Wilf. Some hours ago you durst not. Passion moved 
you; 
Reflection interposed, and held your arm. 
But, should reflection prompt you to attempt it, 
My innocence would give me strength to struggle, 
And wrest the murderous weapon from your hand. 
How would you look to find a peasant-boy 
Return the knife you levelled at his heart, 
And ask you which in heaven would show the best, 
A rich man's honour, or a poor man's honesty ? 

Mort. 'Tis plain I dare not take your life. To spare it, 
I have endangered mine. But dread my power ! 
You know not its extent. Be warned in time : 
Trifle not with my feelings. Listen, Sir ! 
Myriads of engines, which my secret working 
Can rouse to action, now encircle you. 
Your rain hangs upon a thread : provoke me, 
And it shall fall upon you ! Dare to make 
The slightest movement to awake my fears, 
And the gaunt criminal, naked and stake-tied, 
Left on the heath to blister in the sun, 
Till lingering death shall end his agony, 
Compared to thee, shall seem more enviable 
Than cherubs to the damned ! 

Wilf. O misery ! 
Discard me, Sir ! I must be hateful to you. 
Banish me hence. I will be mute as death ; 
But let me quit your service. 

Mort. Never — fool ! 



316 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

To buy this secret, you have sold yourself. 

Your movements, eyes, and, most of all, your breath, 

From this time forth, are fettered to my will ! 

You have said truly — you are hateful to me, 

Yet you shall feel my bounty ; that shall flow, 

And swell your fortunes. 



loanna Uaillk 



DE MONTFORT. 



" De Montfort" forms one of the Scries of Plays by Miss Baillie, 
intended to illustrate the "Passions" Hatred is the subject of this 
Play. De Montfort explains to his Sister Jane his hatred of Re- 
zenvelt, which at last hurries him into the crime of Murder. 

De Montfort, Jane De Montfort. 

De Montfort No more, my sister, urge me not again ; 
My secret troubles cannot be revealed. 
From all participation of its thoughts 
My heart recoils : I pray thee be contented. 

Jane, What ! must I, like a distant humble friend, 
Observe thy restless eye and gait disturbed 
In timid silence, whilst with yearning heart 
I turn aside to weep ? O no, De Montfort ! 
A nobler task thy nobler mind will give ; 
Thy true intrusted friend I still shall be. 

De Mon. Ah, Jane, forbear ! I cannot e'en to thee. 
Jane. Then fie upon it ! fie upon it, Montfort ! 
There was a time when e'en with murder stained, 
Had it been possible that such dire deed 



JOANNA BAILLIE. 317 

Could e'er have been the crime of one so piteous, 
Thou wouldst have told it me. 

De Mon. So would I now — but ask of this no more. 
All other troubles but the one I feel 
I have disclosed to thee. I pray thee, spare me. 
It is the secret weakness of my nature. 

Jane. Then secret let it be : I urge no further. 
The eldest of our valiant father's hopes, 
So sadly orphaned : side by side we stood, 
Like two young trees, whose boughs in early strength 
Screen the weak saplings of the rising grove, 
And brave the storm together. 
I have so long, as if by nature's right, 
Thy bosom's inmate and adviser been, 
I thought through life I should have so remained, 
Nor ever known a change. Forgive me, Montfort ; 
A humbler station will I take by thee ; 
The close attendant of thy wandering steps, 
The cheerer of this home, with strangers sought, 
The soother of those griefs I must not know. 
This is mine office now ; I ask no more. 

De Mon. O Jane, thou dost constrain me with thy love — 
Would I could tell it thee ! 

Jane. Thou shalt not tell me. Nay, I'll stop mine ears, 
Nor from the yearnings of affection wring 
What shrinks from utterance. Let it pass, my brother. 
I'll stay by thee ; I'll cheer thee, comfort thee ; 
Pursue with thee the study of some art, 
Or nobler science, that compels the mind 
To steady thought progressive, driving forth 
All floating, wild, unhappy fantasies, 
Till thou, with brow unclouded, smilest again ; 



3l8 G OLDEN LEAVES. 

Like one who, from dark visions of the night, 
When the active soul within its lifeless cell ' 
Holds its own world, with dreadful fancy pressed 
Of some dire, terrible, or murderous deed, 
Wakes to the dawning morn, and blesses Heaven. 

De Mon. It will not pass away ; 'twill haunt me still. 

Jane. Ah ! say not so, for I will haunt thee too, 
And be to it so close an adversary, 
That, though I wrestle darkling with the fiend, 
I shall o'ercome it. 

De Mon. Thou most generous woman ! 
Why do I treat thee thus ? It should not be — 
And yet I cannot — O that cursed villain ! 
He will not let me be the man I would. 

Jane. What sayst thou, Montfort ? Oh ! what words 
are these ! 
They have awaked my soul to dreadful thoughts. 
I do beseech thee, speak ! 
By the affection thou didst ever bear me ; 
By the dear memory of our infant days ; 
By kindred living ties — ay, and by those 
Who sleep in the tomb, and cannot call to thee, 
I do conjure thee speak ! 

Ha ! wilt thou not ? 
Then, if affection, most unwearied love, 
Tried early, long, and never wanting found, 
O'er generous man hath more authority, 
More rightful power than crown or sceptre give, 
I do command thee ! 
De Montfort, do not thus resist my love. 
Here I entreat thee on my bended knees. 
Alas ! my brother ! 



J A NNA B A ILL IE. 319 

De Mon. \ Raising her, and kneeling. 

Thus let him kneel who should the abased be, 
And at thine honoured feet confession make. 
I'll tell thee all — but, oh ! thou wilt despise me. 
For in my breast a raging passion burns, 
To which thy soul no sympathy will own — 
A passion which hath made my nightly couch 
A place of torment, and the light of day, 
With the gay intercourse of social man, 
Feel like the oppressive airless pestilence. 

Jane! thou wilt despise me 
Jane. Say not so : 

1 never can despise thee, gentle brother. 
A lover's jealousy and hopeless pangs 
No kindly heart contemns. 

De Mon. A lover's, say'st thou ? 
No, it is hate ! black, lasting, deadly hate ! 
Which thus hath driven me forth from kindred peace, 
From social pleasure, from my native home, 
To be a sullen wanderer on the earth, 
Avoiding all men, cursing and accursed. 

Jane. De Montfort, this is fiend-like, terrible ! 
What being, by the Almighty Father formed 
Of flesh and blood, created even as thou, 
Could in thy breast such horrid tempest wake, 
Who art thyself his fellow ? 

Unknit thy brows, and spread those wrath-clenched hands. 
Some sptite accursed within thy bosom mates 
To work thy ruin. Strive with it, my brother ! 
Strive bravely with it ; drive it from thy heart ; 
'Tis the degrader of a noble heart. 
Curse it, and bid it part. 



320 GOLDEN LE AVES. 

De Mon. It will not part. I've lodged it here too long. 
With my first cares I felt its rankling touch. 
I loathed him when a boy. 

Jane. Whom didst thou say ? 

De Mon. Detested Rezenvelt ! 
E'en in our early sports, like two young whelps 
Of hostile breed, instinctively averse, 
Each 'gainst the other pitched his ready pledge, 
And frowned defiance. As we onward passed 
From youth to man's estate, his narrow art 
And envious gibing malice, poorly veiled 
In the affected carelessness of mirth, 
Still more detestable and odious grew. 
There is no living being on this earth 
Who can conceive the malice of his soul, 
With all his gay and damned merriment, 
To those by fortune or by merit placed 
Above his paltry self. When, low in fortune, 
He looked upon the state of prosperous men, 
As nightly birds, roused from their murky holes, 
Do scowl and chatter at the light of day, 
I could endure it; even as we bear 
The impotent bite of some half-trodden worm, 
I could endure it. But when honours came, 
And wealth and new-got titles fed his pride ; 
Whilst flattering knaves did trumpet forth his praise, 
And grovelling idiots grinned applauses on him ; 
Oh ! then I could no longer surfer it ! 
It drove me frantic. What, what would I give — 
What would I give to crush the bloated toad, 
So rankly do I loathe him I 

Jane. And would thy hatred crush the very man 



JOANNA BAILLIE. 321 

Who gave to thee that life he might have taken ? 
That life which thou so rashly didst expose 
To aim at his ? Oh, this is horrible ! 

De Mon. Ha ! thou hast heard it, then ! From all the 
world, 
But most of all from thee, I thought it hid. 

Jane. I heard a secret whisper, and resolved 
Upon the instant to return to thee. 
Didst thou receive my letter ? 

De Mon. I did ! I did ! 'Twas that which drove me 
hither, 
I could not bear to meet thine eye again. 

Jane. Alas ! that, tempted by a sister's tears, 
I ever left thy house ! These few past months, 
These absent months, have brought us all this woe. 
Had I remained with thee, it had not been. 
And yet, methinks, it should not move you thus. 
You dared him to the field; both bravely. fought ; 
He, more adroit, disarmed you ; courteously 
Returned the forfeit sword, which, so returned, 
You did refuse to use against him more ; 
And then, as says report, you parted friends. 

De Mon. When he disarmed this cursed, this worthless 
hand 
Of its most worthless weapon, he but spared 
From devilish pride, which now derives a bliss 
In seeing me thus fettered, shamed, subjected 
With the vile favour of his poor forbearance ; 
Whilst he securely sits with gibing brow, 
And basely baits me like a muzzled cur, 
Who cannot turn again. 
Until that day, till that accursed day, 



322 G OLDEN LEAVES. 

I knew not half the torment of this hell 
Which burns within my breast. Heaven's lightnings blast 
him ! 

Jane. Oh, this is horrible ! Forbear, forbear ! 
Lest Heaven's vengeance light upon thy head 
For this most impious wish. 

De Mon. Then let it light. 
Torments more fell than I have known already 
It cannot send. To be annihilated, 
What all men shrink from ; to be dust, be nothing, 
Were bliss to me, compared to what I am ! 

Jane. Oh ! wouldst thou kill me with these dreadful 
words ? 

De Mon. Let me but once upon his ruin look, 

Then close mine eyes forever ! 

Ha ! how is this ? Thou'rt ill ; thou'rt very pale ; 
What have I done to thee ? Alas ! alas ! 
I meant not to distress thee — O my sister ! 

Jane. I cannot now speak to thee. 

De Mon. I have killed thee. 
Turn, turn thee not away ! Look on me still ! 
Oh ! droop not thus, my life, my pride, my sister ! 
Look on me yet again. 

Jane. Thou, too, De Montfort, 
In better days wast wont to be my pride. 

De Mon. I am a wretch, most wretched in myself, 
And still more wretched in the pain I give. 
O curse that villain, that detested villain ! 
He has spread misery o'er my fated life ; 
He will undo us all. 

Jane. I've held my warfare through a troubled world, 
And borne with steady mind my share of ill ; 



S. T. COLERIDGE. 323 

For then the helpmate of my toil wast thou. 
But now the wane of life comes darkly on, 
And hideous passion tears thee from my heart, 
Blasting thy worth. I cannot strive with this. 
De Mon. What shall I do ? 



0amud (fraglcr (Hoktftge. 

REMORSE. 

Don Alvar and Don Ordonio, Sons of the Marquis Valdez, equally 
love Donna Teresa, an orphan Heiress, brought up by Valdez. The 
Lady returns the lo've of Don Alvar, and they are betrothed. Or- 
donio, instigated by jealousy, conspires against his Brothers life. He 
employs Isidore, a Morisco Chieftain, professing Christianity, to assas- 
sinate Don Alvar, on his return from the Belgic Wars. Isidore 
and his Companions attack Don Alvar, but are overpoivered by the 
bravery of their intended Victim, ivho learns from Isidore that Donna 
Teresa has proved false to him, and is about 'to marry Ordonio. 
u Wearied ivith life," he returns to the Wars, is ivounded in battle, 
and taken Prisoner. After an absence of six years, he returns to his 
oiun Country, and in the disguise of a Moorish Necromancer is found 
by Ordonio, ivho engages him to use his necromantic art to raise the 
Spirit of Alvar before Teresa, ivho, true to her voivs to her sup- 
posed dead Lover, refuses the proffered hand of Ordonio. Alvar 
consents, his only desire being that — 

M Remorse might fasten on his brother's breast," 
.... the punishment that cleanses hearts." 

Scene — A Hall of Armory, with an Altar at the back of 
the Stage. Soft Music from an instrument of glass or 
steel. Valdez, Ordonio, and, Alvar in a Sorcerer's 
robe, are discovered. 

Ord. This was too melancholy, father. 
Vald. Nay, 



324 G OLDEN LEAVE S. 

My Alvar loved sad music from a child. 

Once he was lost, and after weary search 

We found him in an open place in the wood, 

To which spot he had followed a blind boy, 

Who breathed into a pipe of sycamore 

Some strangely moving notes ; and these, he said, 

Were taught him in a dream. Him we first saw 

Stretched on the broad top of a sunny heath-bank : 

And lower down poor Alvar, fast asleep, 

His head upon the blind boy's dog. It pleased me 

To mark how he had fastened round the pipe 

A silver toy his grandam had late given him. 

Methinks I see him now as he then looked — 

Even so ! He had outgrown his infant dress, 

Yet still he wore it. 

Alv. My tears must not flow ! 
I must not clasp his knees, and cry, My father ! 

Enter Teresa and Attendants. 

Ter. Lord Valdez, you have asked my presence here, 
And I submit ; but (Heaven bear witness for me) 
My heart approves it not ! 'tis mockery. 

Ord. Believe you, then, no preternatural influence ? 
Believe you not that spirits throng around us ? 

Ter. Say rather that I have imagined it 
A possible thing : and it has soothed my soul 
As other fancies have ; but ne'er seduced me 
To traffic with the black and frenzied hope 
That the dead hear the voice of witch or wizard. 
[To Alvar.] Stranger, I mourn and blush to see you here 
On such employment ! With far other thoughts 
I left you. 



S. T. COLERIDGE. 325 

Ord. [Aside.] Ha ! he has been tampering with her ! 

Alv. O high-souled maiden ! and more dear to me 
Than suits the stranger's name ! 

swear to thee 
I will uncover all concealed guilt. 
Doubt, but decide not ! Stand ye from the altar. 

[Here a strain of music is heard from behind the scene. 

Alv. With no irreverent voice or uncouth charm 
I call up the departed ! 

Soul of Alvar ! 
Hear our soft suit, and heed my milder spell : 
So may the gates of Paradise, unbarred, 
Cease thy swift toils ! Since haply thou art one 
Of that innumerable company 
Who in broad circle, lovelier than the rainbow, 
Girdle this round earth in a dizzy motion, 
With noise too vast and constant to be heard : 
Fitliest unheard ! For oh, ye numberless * 
And rapid travellers ! what ear unstunned, 
What sense unmaddened, might bear up against 
The rushing of your congregated wings ? [Mz^c] 

Even now your living wheel turns o'er my head ! 

[Music expressive of the. movements and images 
that follow.] 
Ye, as ye pass, toss high the desert sands, 
That roar and whiten like a burst of waters, 
A sweet appearance, but a dread illusion 
To the parched caravan that roams by night ! 
And ye build up on the becalmed waves 
That whirling pillar, which from earth to heaven 
Stands vast, and moves in blackness ! Ye, too, split 
The ice-mount ! and with fragments many and huge 



326 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Tempest the new-thawed sea, whose sudden gulfs 
Suck in, perchance, some Lapland wizard's skiff ! 
Then round and round the whirlpool's marge ye dance, 
Till from the blue swollen corse the soul toils out, 
And joins your mighty army. [Here, behind the scenes, a 
voice sings the three words , " Hear, sweet spirit"] 
Soul of Alvar ! 
Hear the mild spell, and tempt no blacker charm ! 
By sighs unquiet, and the sickly pang 
Of a half dead, yet still undying hope, 
Pass visible before our mortal sense ! 
So shall the church's cleansing rites be thine, 
Her knells and masses, that redeem the dead ! 

[Song behind the scenes, accompanied by the same instru- 
ment as before.] 

Hear, sweet spirit, hear the spell, 
Lest a blacker charm compel ! 
So shall the midnight breezes swell 
With thy deep, long, lingering knell. 

And at evening evermore, 

In a chapel on the shore, 

Shall the chanters, sad and saintly, 

Yellow tapers burning faintly, 

Doleful masses chant for thee, 

Miserere Domine ! 

Hark ! the cadence dies away 

On the yellow moonlight sea : 
The boatmen rest their oars and say, 

Miserere Domine ! [A long pause. 

Ord. The innocent obey nor charm nor spell ! 



S. T. COLERIDGE. 327 

My brother is in heaven. Thou sainted spirit, 
Burst on our sight, a passing visitant ! 
Once more to hear thy voice, once more to see thee, 
O 'twere a joy to me ! 

Alv. A joy to thee ! 
What if thou heardst him now ? What if his spirit 
Re-entered its cold corse, and came upon thee 
With many a stab from many a murderer's poniard ? 
What if (his steadfast eye still beaming pity 
And brother's love) he turned his head aside, 
Lest he should look at thee, and with one look 
Hurl thee beyond all power of penitence ? 

Vald, These are unholy fancies ! 

Ord. [Struggling with his feelings. ,] Yes> my father, 
He is in heaven ! 

Alv, [Still to Ordonio.] But what if he had a brother, 
Who had lived even so, that at his dying hour 
The name of heaven would have convulsed his face 
More than the death-pang ? 

Vald. Idly prating man ! 
Thou hast guessed ill : Don Alvar's only brother 
Stands here before thee — a father's blessing on him ! 
He is most virtuous. 

Alv. [Still to Ordonio.] What is his very virtues 
Had pampered his swollen heart and made him proud ? 
And what if pride had duped him into guilt ? 
Yet still he stalked a self-created god, 
Not very bold, but exquisitely cunning; 
And one that at his mother's looking-glass 
Would force his features to a frowning sternness ? 
Young lord ! I tell thee that there are such beings — 
Yea, and it gives fierce merriment to the damned 
15 



323 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

To see these most proud men, that loathe mankind, 

At every stir and buzz of coward conscience, 

Trick, cant, and lie ; most whining hypocrites ! 

Away, away ! Now let me hear more music. [Music again, 

Ter. 'Tis strange, I tremble at my own conjectures ! 
But whatsoe'er it mean, I dare no longer 
Be present at these lawless mysteries, 
This dark provoking of the hidden powers ! 
Already I affront — if not high Heaven — 
Yet Alvar's memory ! Hark ! I make appeal 
Against the unholy rite, and hasten hence 
To bend before a lawful shrine, and seek 
That voice which whispers, when the still heart listens, 
Comfort and faithful hope ! Let us retire. 

Alv. [ To Teresa.] O full of faith and guileless love ! 
thy spirit 
Still prompts thee wisely. Let the pangs of guilt 
Surprise the guilty ; thou art innocent ! 

[Exeunt Teresa and Attendants. 

Alv, The spell is muttered. Come, thou wandering shape, 
Who own'st no master in a human eye, 
Whate'er be this man's doom, fair be it, or foul, 
If he be dead, O come ! and bring with thee 
That which he grasped in death ! but if he live, 
Some token of his obscure, perilous life. 

Chorus. 

Wandering demons, hear the spell ! 

Lest a blacker charm compel. [covered. 

[An illuminated Picture of Alvar's assassination is dis- 

Ord. [Starting.] Duped ! duped ! duped ! 
The traitor Isidore ! . . . 



S. T. C OLE RID GE. 329 

Ordonio, believing that he has been duped and betrayed by Isidore, 
lures him to a Cavern in the vicinity of the Castle, and there hurls 
him into a yawning Chasm. Alhadra, the Wife of Isidore, tracks 
the Murderer, and summons her Countrymen to meet her in the Moun- 
tains, to take vengeance on Ordonio, ivho subsequently falls by the 
hand of Alhadra. 

The Mountains by Moonlight. Alhadra alone, in a 
Moorish dress. 
Alhadra. Yon hanging woods, that, touched by autumn, 
seem 
As they were blossoming hues of fire and gold ; 
The flower-like woods, most lovely in decay, 
The many clouds, the sea, the rocks, the sands, 
Lie in the silent moonshine ; and the owl 
(Strange, very strange !) — the screech-owl only wakes, 
Sole voice, sole eye of all this world of beauty ! 
Unless, perhaps, she sing her screeching song 
To a herd of wolves, that skulk athirst for blood. 
Why such a thing am I ? Where are these men ? 
I need the sympathy of human faces, 
To beat away this deep contempt for all things, 
Which quenches my revenge. Oh ! would to Allah 
The raven or the sea-mew were appointed 
To bring me food ! or rather that my soul 
Could drink in life from the universal air ! 
It were a lot divine, in some small skiff, 
Along some ocean's boundless solitude, 
To float forever with a careless course, 
And think myself the only being alive ! 
My children ! — Isidore's children ! — Son of Valdez, 
This hath new-strung mine arm. Thou coward tyrant ! 
To stupefy a woman's heart with anguish, 
Till she forgot even that she was a mother ! 



3*3° GOLDEN LEAVES. 

[She fixes her eyes on the earth. Then drop in, one after 
another, from different parts of the stage, a considera- 
ble number of Moris coes, all in Moorish garments and 
Moorish armour. They form a circle at a distance 
round Alhadra, and remain silent till the second in 
command, Naomi, enters, distinguished by his dress and 
armour, and by the silent obeisance paid to him on his 
entrance by the other Moors.] 
Naomi. Woman, may Allah and the Prophet bless thee! 

We have obeyed thy call. Where is our chief? 

And why didst thou enjoin these Moorish garments ? 
Alhad. [Raising her eyes, and looking round on the 
circle.] 

Warriors of Mahomet ! faithful in the battle ! 

My countrymen ! Come ye prepared to work 

An honourable deed ? And would ye work it 

In the slave's garb ? Curse on those Christian robes ! 

They are spell-blasted ; and whoever wears them, 

His arm shrinks withered, his heart melts away, 

And his bones soften. 

Naomi. Where is Isidore ? 

Alhad. [In a deep low voice.] This night I went from 
forth my house, and left 

His children all asleep ; and he was living ! 

And I returned, and found them still asleep, 

But he had perished ! 

All Moriscoes. Perished ? 
Alhad. He had perished ! — 

Sleep on, poor babes ! not one of you doth know 

That he is fatherless — a desolate orphan ! 

Why should we wake them ? Can an infant's arm 

Revenge his murder ? 



S. T. COLERIDGE. 331 

One Morisco to another. Did she say his murder? 

Naomi. Murder ! Not murdered ! 

Alhad. Murdered by a Christian ! [ They all at once 
drazo their sabres. 

Alhad. [To Naomi, zuho advances from the circle.] 
Brother of Zagri, fling away thy sword; 
This is thy chieftain's ! [He steps forward to take it.] 

Dost thou dare receive it ? 
For I have sworn by Allah and the Prophet, 
No tear shall dim these eyes — this woman's heart 
Shall heave no groan — till I have seen that sword 
Wet with the life-blood of the son of Valdez ! [A pause.] 
Ordonio was your chieftain's murderer ! 
' Naomi. He dies, by Allah ! 

All. [Kneeling.] By Allah ! 

Alhad. This night your chieftain armed himself, 
And hurried from me. But I followed him 
At distance, till I saw him enter — there ! * 

Naomi. The cavern ? 

Alhad. Yes, the mouth of yonder cavern. 
After a while I saw the son of Valdez 
Rush by with flaring torch ; he likewise entered. 
There was another and a longer pause ; 
And once me thought I heard the clash of swords ! 
And soon the son of Valdez reappeared : 
He flung his torch towards the moon in sport, 
And seemed as he were mirthful ; I stood listening, 
Impatient for the footsteps of my husband ! 

Naomi. Thou calledst him ? 

Alhad. I crept into the cavern — 
'Twas dark and very silent. [Then wildly.] What 
saidst thou ? 



33 2 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

No, no ! I did not dare call Isidore, 

Lest I should hear no answer. A brief while, 

Belike, I lost all thought and memory 

Of that for which I came. After that pause — 

Heaven ! I heard a groan, and followed it ; 
And yet another groan, which guided me 
Into a strange recess, and there was light, 

A hideous light ! his torch lay on the ground ; 
Its flame burned dimly o'er a chasm's brink. 

1 spake ; and whilst I spake, a feeble groan 

Came from that chasm ! it was his last — his death-groan ! 

Naomi. Comfort her, Allah ! 

Alhad. I stood in unimaginable trance, 
And agony that cannot be remembered, 
Listening with horrid hope to hear a groan ! 
But I had heard his last, my husband's death-groan ! 

Naomi. Haste ! let us onward. 

Alhad. I looked far down the pit — 
My sight was bounded by a jutting fragment ; 
And it was stained with blood. Then first I shrieked, 
My eyeballs burned, my brain grew hot as fire ! 
And all the hanging drops of the wet roof 
Turned into blood — I saw them turn to blood ! 
And I was leaping wildly down the chasm, 
When on the farther brink I saw his sword, 
And it said vengeance ! Curses on my tongue ! 
The moon hath moved in heaven, and I am here, 
And he hath not had vengeance ! Isidore, 
Spirit of Isidore, thy murderer lives ! 
Away, away ! 

AIL Away, away ! [She rushes off, all following. 



BYRON. 333 

£orb Ugron. 

MANFRED. 

The Coliseum. 

The stars are forth, the moon above the tops 
Of the snow-shining mountains. — Beautiful ! 
I linger yet with Nature, for the Night 
Hath been to me a more familiar face 
Than that of man ; and in her starry shade 
Of dim and solitary loveliness, 
I learned the language of another world. 
I do remember me, that in my youth, 
When I was wandering, — upon such a night 
I stood within the Coliseum's wall, 
Midst the chief relics of almighty Rome. 
The trees which grew along the broken arches 
Waved dark in the blue midnight, and the stars 
Shone through the rents of ruin ; from afar 
The watch-dog bayed beyond the Tiber ; and 
More near, from out the Caesars' palace, came 
The owl's long cry, and, interruptedly, 
Of distant sentinels the fitful song 
Begun and died upon the gentle wind. 
Some cypresses beyond the time-worn breach 
Appeared to skirt the horizon, yet they stood 
Within a bowshot. — Where the Caesars dwelt, 
And dwell the tuneless birds of night, amidst 
A grove which springs through levelled battlements, 
And twines its roots with the imperial hearths, 
Ivy usurps the laurel's place of growth; — 
But the gladiators' bloody Circus stands, 



334 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

A noble wreck in ruinous perfection ! 

While Caesar's chambers and the Augustan halls 

Grovel on earth in indistinct decay. — 

And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, upon 

All this, and cast a wide and tender light, 

Which softened down the hoar austerity 

Of rugged desolation, and rilled up, 

As 'twere anew, the gaps of centuries ; 

Leaving that beautiful which still was so, 

And making that which was not, till the place 

Became religion, and the heart ran o'er 

With silent worship of the great of old ! — 

The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule 

Our spirits from their urns. . . . 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 

The Execution of Marino Faliero. 

The Court of the Ducal Palace. — The Doge enters in his 
ducal robes, in procession with the Council of Ten and 
other Patricians, attended by the Guards, till they ar- 
rive at the top of the " Giants' Staircase" (where the 
Doges took the oaths) ; the Executioner is stationed there 
with his sword. — On arriving, a Chief of the Ten takes 
of the ducal cap from the Doge's head. 

Doge. So, now the Doge is nothing, and at last 
I am again Marino Faliero : 
'Tis well to be so, though but for a moment. 
Here was I crowned, and here, bear witness, Heaven ! 
With how much more contentment I resign 



BYRON. 335 

That shining mockery, the ducal bawble, 
Than I received the fatal ornament. 

One of the Ten. Thou tremblest, Faliero ! 

Doge. 'Tis with age, then. 

Benintende. Faliero ! hast thou aught further to commend, 
Compatible with justice, to the senate ? 

Doge. I would commend my nephew to their mercy, 
My consort to their justice ; for methinks 
My death, and such a death, might settle all 
Between the State and me. 

Ben. They shall be cared for; 
Even notwithstanding thine unheard-of crime. 

Doge. Unheard of! ay, there's not a history 
But shows a thousand crowned conspirators 
Against the people ; but to set them free, 
One sovereign only died, and one is dying. 

Ben. And who were they who fell in such a cause ? 

Doge. The King of Sparta, and the Doge of Venice — 
Agis and Faliero ! 

Ben. Hast thou more 
To utter or to do ? 

Doge. May I speak r 

Ben. Thou mayst ; 
But recollect the people are without, 
Beyond the compass of the human voice. 

Doge. I speak to Time and to Eternity, 

Of which I grow a portion, not to man. 

Ye elements ! in which to be resolved 

I hasten, let my voice be as a spirit 

Upon you ! Ye blue waves ! which bore my banner, 

Ye winds ! which fluttered o'er as if you loved it, 

And fihed my swelling sails as they were wafted 
15* 



?36 G OLDEN LEAVES. 

To many a triumph ! Thou, my native earth, 
Which I have bled for ! and thou foreign earth, 
Which drank this willing blood from many a wound ! 
Ye stones, in which my gore will not sink, but 
Reek up to heaven ! Ye skies, which will receive it ! 
Thou sun ! which shinest on these things, and Thou ! 
Who kindlest and who quenchest suns ! — Attest ! 
I am not innocent — but are these guiltless ? 
I perish, but not unavenged ; far ages 
Float up from the abyss of time to be, 
And show these eyes, before they close, the doom 
Of this proud city, and I leave my curse 

On her and hers forever ! Yes, the hours 

Are silently engendering of the day, 

When she, who built 'gainst Attila a bulwark, 

Shall yield, and bloodlessly and basely yield, 

Unto a bastard Attila, without 

Shedding so much blood in her last defence, 

As these old veins, oft drained in shielding her; 

Shall pour in sacrifice. — She shall be bought 

And sold, and be an appanage to those 

Who shall despise her ! — She shall stoop to be 

A province for an empire, petty town 

In lieu of capital, with slaves for senates, 

Beggars for nobles, panders for a people ! 

Then, when the Hebrew's in thy palaces, 

The Hun in thy high places, and the Greek 

Walks o'er thy mart, and smiles on it for his ; 

When thy patricians beg their bitter bread 

In narrow streets, and in their shameful need 

Make their nobility a plea for pity ; 

Then, when the few who still retain a wreck 



BYRON. 337 

Of their great fathers' heritage shall fawn 

Round a barbarian Vice of Kings' Vice-gerent, 

Even in the palace where they swayed as sovereigns, 

Even in the palace where they slew their sovereign, 

Proud of some name they have disgraced, or sprung 

From an adulteress boastful of her guilt 

With some large gondolier or foreign soldier, 

Shall bear about their bastardy in triumph 

To the third spurious generation : — when 

Thy sons are in the lowest scale of being, 

Slaves turned o'er to the vanquished by the victors, 

Despised by cowards for greater cowardice, 

And scorned even by the vicious for such vices 

As in the monstrous grasp of their conception 

Defy all codes to image or to name them ; 

Then, when of Cyprus, now thy subject kingdom, 

All thine inheritance shall be her shame 

Entailed on thy less virtuous daughters, grown 

A wider proverb for worse prostitution : — 

When all the ills of conquered states shall cling thee, 

Vice without splendour, sin without relief 

Even from the gloss of love to smooth it o'er, 

But in its stead, coarse lusts of habitude, 

Prurient yet passionless, cold studied lewdness, 

Depraving Nature's frailty to an art ; — 

When these and more are heavy on thee, when 

Smiles without mirth, and pastimes without pleasure, 

Youth without honour, age without respect, 

Meanness and weakness, and a sense of woe 

'Gainst which thou wilt not strive, and dar'st not murmur, 

Have made thee last and worst of peopled deserts, 

Then, in the last gasp of thine agony, 



33 8 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Amidst thy many murders, think of mine ! 
Thou den of drunkards with the blood of princes ! 
Gehenna of the waters ! thou sea Sodom ! 
Thus I devote thee to the infernal gods ! 
Thee and thy serpent seed ! 

[Here the Doge turns and addresses the Executioner. 
Slave, do thine office ! 
Strike as I struck the foe ! Strike as I would 
Have struck those tyrants ! Strike deep as my curse ! 
Strike — and but once ! 

[ The Doge throws himself upon his knees, and as the 
Executioner raises his sword the scene closes. 



SARDAN AP ALUS. 

Our Vices greater Tyrants, than Despots. 

Think'st thou there is no tyranny but that 
Of blood and chains ? The despotism of vice — 
The weakness and the wickedness of luxury — 
The negligence — the apathy — the evils 
Of sensual sloth — produce ten thousand tyrants, 
Whose delegated cruelty surpasses 
The worst acts of one energetic master, 
However harsh and hard in his own bearing. 
The false and fond examples of thy lusts 
Corrupt no less than they oppress, and sap 
In the same moment all thy pageant power 
And those who should sustain it ; so that whether 
A foreign foe invade, or civil broil 
Distract within, both will alike prove fatal : 
The first thy subjects have no heart to conquer; 
The last they rather would assist than vanquish. 



BYRON. 3 39 

THE TWO FOSCARI. 

Our Life a Mystery. 

Are you content ? 

I am what you behold. 

And that's a mystery. 

All things are so to mortals ; who can read them 
Save He who made ? or, if they can, the few 
And gifted spirits, who have studied long 
That loathsome volume — man, and pored upon 
Those black and bloody leaves, his heart and brain, 
But learn a magic which recoils upon 
The adept who pursues it : all the sins 
We find in others, Nature made our own ; 
All our advantages are those of Fortune; 
Birth, wealth, health, beauty, are her accidents, 
And when we cry out against Fate, 'twere well 
We should remember Fortune can take naught 
Save what she gave — the rest was nakedness, 
And lusts, and appetites, and vanities, 
The universal heritage, to battle 
With as we may, and least in humblest stations, 
Where hunger swallows all in one low want, 
And the original ordinance, that man 
Must sweat for his poor pittance, keeps all passions 
Aloof, save fear of famine ! All is low, 
And false a and hollow — clay from first to last, 
The prince's urn no less than potter's vessel. 
Our fame is in men's breath, our lives upon 
Less than their breath ; our durance upon days, 
Our days on seasons ; our whole being on 



34° GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Something which is not us ! — So, we are slaves, 

The greatest as the meanest — nothing rests 

Upon our will ; the will itself no less 

Depends upon a straw than on a storm ; 

And when we think we lead, we are most led, 

And still towards death, a thing which comes as much 

Without our act or choice as birth, so that 

Methinks we must have sinned in some old world, 

And this is hell : the best is, that it is not 

Eternal. 



WERNER. 

Werner, a banished Nobleman^ reduced to Poverty, robs Stralen- 
heim, the Causer of his Wrongs. He avows the Crime to his Son 
Ulric. 

Werner, Ulric. 

Ulr. (Starts, looks earnestly at Werner, and then says 
slowly) — And you avow it ? 

Wer. Ulric, before you dare despise your father, 
Learn to divine and judge his actions. Young, 
Rash, new to life, and reared in luxury's lap, 
Is it for you to measure passion's force, 
Or misery's temptation ? Wait — (not long, 
It cometh like the night, and quickly) — wait ! — 
Wait till, like me, your hopes are blighted — till 
Sorrow and Shame are handmaids of your cabin ; 
Famine and Poverty your guests at table ; 
Despair your bed-fellow — then rise, but not 
From sleep, and judge ! Should that day e'er arrive — 
Should you see then the serpent, who hath coiled 
Himself around all that is dear and noble 



BYRON. 341 

Of you and yours, lie slumbering in your path, 

With but his folds between your steps and happiness, 

When he, who lives but to tear from you name, 

Lands, life itself, lies at your mercy, with 

Chance your conductor ; midnight for your mantle ; 

The bare knife in your hand, and earth asleep, 

Even to your deadliest foe ; and he as 'twere 

Inviting death, by looking like it, while 

His death alone can save you : — Thank your God ! 

If then, like me, content with petty plunder, 

You turn aside —I did so. 

Ulr. But 

Wer, {abruptly). Hear me ! 
I will not brook a human voice — scarce dare 
Listen to my own (if that be human still) — 
Hear me ! you do not know this man — I do. 
He's mean, deceitful, avaricious. You 
Deem yourself safe, as young and brave ; but learn, 
None are secure from desperation, few 
From subtilty. My worst foe, Stralenheim, 
Housed in a prince's palace, couched within 
A prince's chamber, lay below my knife ! 
An instant — a mere motion — the least impulse — 
Had swept him and all fears of mine from earth. 
He was within my power — my knife was raised — 
Withdrawn — and I'm in his: — are you not so? 
Who tells you that he knows you not f Who says 
He hath not lured you here to end you ? or 
To plunge you, with your parents, in a dungeon ? 

[He pauses. 

Ulr. Proceed — proceed ! 

Wer, Me he hath ever known, 



342 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

And hunted through each change of time — name — fortune- 
And why not you ? Are you more versed in men ? 
He wound snares round me ; flung along my path 
Reptiles, whom, in my youth, I would have spurned 
Even from my presence ; but, in spurning now, 
Fill only with fresh venom. 'Will you be 
More patient? Ulric ! — Ulric ! — there are crimes 
Made venial by the occasion, and temptations 
Which Nature cannot master or forbear. 



l\zv. (£f)arle0 fttaturin. 

BERTRAM. 

Count Bertram, driven from his Country by the machinations of Lord 
St. Aldobrand, joins a desperate Band of Robbers, and becomes 
their Leader. He and his Companions arc wrecked on the Coast near 
the Castle of St. Aldobrand. Bertram is preserved by Monks, 
and taken to their Con-vent. He is attended by the Prior. 

Bertram, Prior. 
An Apartment in the Convent. — Bertram discovered sleep- 
ing on a Couch, the Prior watching him. 

Prior, He sleeps — if it be sleep ; this starting trance, 
Whose feverish tossings and deep-muttered groans 
Do prove the soul shares not the body's rest. 

[Hanging over him. 
How the lip works ! how the bare teeth do grind, 
And beaded drops course down his writhen brow ! 
I will awake him from this horrid trance ; 
This is no natural sleep. Ho ! wake thee, stranger ! 

Bertram. What wouldst thou have ? my life is in thy 
power. 



MA T UR IX. 343 

Prior, Most wretched man, whose fears alone betray thee, 
What art thou ? — Speak ! 

Ber. Thou sayst I am a wretch, 
And thou sayst true — these weeds do witness it — 
These wave-worn weeds — these bare and bruised limbs — 
What wouldst thou more ? I shrink not from the question. 
I am a wretch, and proud of wretchedness ; 
'Tis the sole earthly thing that cleaves to me. 

Prior. Lightly I deem of outward wretchedness, 
For that hath been the lot of blessed saints ; 
But, in their dire extreme of outward wretchedness, 
Full calm they slept in dungeons and in darkness, — 
Such hath not been thy sleep. 

Ber. Didst watch my sleep ? 
But thou couldst gain no secret from my ravings. 

Prior. Thy secrets ! wretched man, I reck not of them ; 
But I adjure thee, by the Church's power 
(A power to search man's secret heart of sin), 
Show me thy wound of soul. 
Weepst thou the ties of nature or of passion, 
Torn by the hand of Heaven ? 
Oh, no ! full well I deemed no gentler feeling 
Woke the dark lightning of thy withering eye. 
What fiercer spirit is it tears thee thus ? 
Show me the horrid tenant of thy heart ! 
Or wrath, or hatred, or revenge is there — 

[Bertram suddenly starts from the Couch, raises his 
clasped hands, and comes forward. 

Ber. I would consort with mine eternal enemy, 
To be revenged on him ! 

Prior. Art thou a man, or fiend, who speakest thus ? 

Ber. I was a man ; I know not what I am — 



344 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

What others' crimes and injuries have made me — 
Look on me ! What am I ? [Advances- 

Prior. [Retreating.] I know not. 

Ber. I marvel that thou sayst it, 
For lowly men full oft remember those 
In changed estate, whom equals have forgotten. 
A passing beggar hath remembered me, 
When with strange eyes my kinsmen looked on me, 
I wore no sullied weeds on that proud day. 
When thou, a barefoot monk, didst bow full low 
For alms, my heedless hand hath flung to thee. 
Thou dost not know me ! [Approaching him. 

Prior. Mine eyes are dim with age — but many thoughts 
Do stir within me at thy voice. 

Ber. List to me, monk. It is thy trade to talk, 
As reverend men do use in saintly wise, 
Of life's vicissitudes and vanities. 
Hear one plain tale that doth surpass all saws — 
Hear it from me — Count Bertram ! — ay, Count Bertram ! 
The darling of his liege and of his land, 
The army's idol, and the council's head — 
Whose smile was fortune, and whose will was law — 
Doth bow him to the Prior of St. Anselm 
For water to refresh his parched lip, 
And this hard-matted couch to fling his limbs on ! 

Prior. Good Heaven and all its saints ! 

Ber. Wilt thou betray me ? 

Prior. Lives there the wretch beneath these walls to do it ? 
Sorrow enough hath bowed thy head already, 
Thou man of many woes. — 
Far more I fear lest thou betray thyself. 
Hard by do stand the halls of Aldobrand 



MAT U BIN. 345 

(Thy mortal enemy and cause of fall), 

Where ancient custom doth invite each stranger, 

Cast on this shore, to sojourn certain days, 

And taste the bounty of the castle's lord. 

If thou goest not, suspicion will arise ; 

And if thou dost (all changed as thou art), 

Some desperate burst of passion will betray thee, 

And end in mortal scath — [A pause. 

What dost thou gaze on with such fixed eyes ? 

Ber. What sayst thou ? 
I dreamed I stood before Lord Aldobrand, 
Impenetrable to his searching eyes — 
And I did feel the horrid joy men feel 
Measuring the serpent's coil, whose fangs have stung them ; 
Scanning with giddy eye the air-hung rock, 
From which they leaped and live by miracle ;— 
To see that horrid spectre of my thoughts 
In all the stern reality of life — 
To mark the living lineaments of hatred, 
And say, this is the man whose sight should blast me ; 
Yet, in calm, dreadful triumph, still gaze on, — 
It is a horrid joy. 

Prior. Nay, rave not thus ; 
Thou wilt not meet him ; many a day must pass, 
Till from Palermo's walls he wend him homeward, 
Where now he tarries with St. Anselm's knights. 
His dame doth dwell in solitary wise ; 
Few are the followers in his lonely halls — 
Why dost thou smile in that most horrid guise ? 

Ber. [Repeating .] His dame doth dwell alone ! Per- 
chance his child — 
Oh, no, no, no ! it was a damned thought. 



34 6 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Prior. I do but indistinctly hear thy words, 
But feel they have some fearful meaning in them. 

Ber. Oh, that I could but mate him in his might ! 
Oh, that we were on the dark wave together, 
With but one plank between us and destruction, 
That I might grasp him in these desperate arms, 
And plunge with him amid the weltering billows, 
And view him gasp for life ! — and — 
Ha ! ha ! — I see him struggling ! — 
I see him ! — ha ! ha ! ha ! \A frantic laugh. 

Prior. Oh, horrible ! 
Help ! — Help to hold him, for my strength doth fail ! 
Enter two Monks. — They support Bertram. 



Rkljarb £alor jSljiel. 

THE APOSTATE. 

Hemeya, the last Descendant of the ancient Moorish Kings of Granada, 
loves Florinda, Daughter of the Count Alvarez, and, to obtain 
her hand, he becomes an i( - Apostate." Florinda is also sought in 
Marriage by Count Pescara, a Persecutor of the Moors. 

Count Alvarez, Hemeya, Florinda. 

Alvarez. [To Hemeya.] I come to seek you, for the 
gorgeous temple 
Is kindled with the Church's brightest pomp ; 
And thousands wait your presence, to begin 
The rite of adjuration. 

Hemeya. Is my fate so near its hard completion ? 

Alv. It is well 
Thou hast consented, else the fiercest fires 






SHIEL. 347 

The Inquisition kindles for the Moors, 
Had been thy portion. 

Florinda. Then lose not an instant ; 
Take him, my father, else he will go back. 

Alv. To-night a priest shall join your wedded hands. 

Hem. And let that thought alone possess my soul ! 
Upon the verge of ruin I will gaze 
On the bright vision that allures me on, 
And leads me to the gulf; I'll turn my eyes 
Tow'rds the star-studded heaven, where still it shines 
While I am sinking. Yes, when I behold thee, 
Conscience is scarce a rebel to thy charms. 
I go, Florinda ; do not forget 
That, if I dare be guilty, 'tis for thee ! 

[Exeunt Alvarez and Hemeya. 

Flor. I am happy now — 
A beam of angel-bliss falls on my heart, . 
And spreads Heaven's light about it. 

[The gates of the Inquisition open — the bell tolls twice. 
What do I see ? 

Enter Gomez, Pescara, and Inquisitors, from the interior 
of the Edifice. 

The Inquisition's servants — Gomez, Pescara ! 

[Rushes up wildly and exultingly to the Inquisitors. 
He is a Christian ! he has 'scaped your toils. 
Heaven watches o'er his safety ! you are foiled ! 
Stir not another step ; back, back again — 
Back to your cells and caverns. Do you not see 
Faith, like an angel, hov'ring o'er his head ? 
Back, back ! he is a Christian ! 

Gom. [Advancing towards her.] Who art thou, 



34 8 G OLDEN LEAVES. 

That with loud adjuration hast presumed 
To interrupt the servants of the Church ? 

Pes. Forgive her, holy father, for she seems 
Touched with inspiring power. 
[Goes up to ker.~\ The fair Florinda ! 
I cry you mercy, madam. 

Flor. Pardon me, I know not what I said. 

Pes. Ay, but I know it. Stay, stay, fair maid ! 
[To Gomez.] Speed, Gomez, strike the blow, 
Strike it at once ! And, hark ye, as you go, 
Think that Pescara will not be ungrateful. 

[Exeunt Gomez and Inquisitors. 

Flor. He sends him forth 
Upon some dreadful purpose. 

Pes. Do you deign 
To look upon the wretch from whom your eyes 
Were ever turned with loathing ? but 'tis merciful. 
This sun-set beam of hope — nay, do not tremble ; 
You should not fear the man that you despise. 

Flor. My lord, 'tis not my purpose to offend you : 
One poor request is all that I entreat ; 
Tell me, what cause has called these men of death 
Forth from their dread abodes ? whom do they seek ? 
What is their dread intent ? teach me, my lord ; 
I do conjure you, teach me. 

Pes. Ay, 'tis your sex's vice ; when curiosity 
Once stings a woman's heart, Scorn will turn suppliant, 
And Hate itself will almost learn to woo. 

Flor. Not against him ? 

Pes. Who is it that you mean. 
I do not understand you ? 

Flor. His dark eye 



SHIEL. 349 

Glitters with horrid meaning — " like the glass, 

Within whose orb the voice of magic calls 

The fiends from hell, within its fiery globe 

The demon passions rise !" 

My lord, forgive me 

That I have dared to ask : I take my leave. 

Pes. [Stopping her.'] Nay, do not go ; although I am 
forbid 
To tell the secrets of the Inquisition, 
Yet something can I tell you. 

Flor. Well, my lord ! 

Pes. 'Tis but a dream. 

Flor. You mock me. 

Pes. Do not think it ; 
You are a pious and believing maid, 
And long within a convent's holy cells 
Communed with Heaven's pure votaries. , I remember 
When you did marvel what young virgins meant, 
When all their talk was love ; for on your heart 
It fell like moonlight on a frozen fountain. 
That heart has melted since ; — but you, perchance, 
Have still retained enough of true belief 
Not to despise a vision ! On my couch, 
Last night, I long lay sleepless ; I revolved 
The scorns, the contumelies I have suffered, 
But will not brook ; at last, sleep closed my eyelids, 
And then methought I saw the am'rous Moor 
In all the transports of exulting passion, 
And I stood by, chained to a fiery pillar, 
Condemned to gaze forever ; while two fiends 
Did grin and mow upon me. 
Senseless I fell with rage. As thus I lay, 



35° GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Forth from the yawning earth a figure rose, 

Whose stature reached to Heaven ; his robes appeared 

Woven out of solid fire ! around his head 

A serpent twined his huge gigantic folds ; 

And on his front, in burning characters, 

Was written, " Vengeance !" 

Flor. Vengeance ! oh, my lord, 
You fright me ! but I ne'er offended you ; 
What crime have I committed ? 

Pes. Listen to me : 
He cried, u Do not despair !" and bade me follow. 

Flor. Let me depart — 

Pes. I followed — 
He led me to a bower of Paradise, 
And held a cup of joy, which, he exclaimed, 
Was mingled by himself; — I quaffed : 'twas nectar, 
And thrilled within my heart — then, then, Florinda ! — 

Flor. Let me implore you — [Struggling. 

Pes. Then, within my arms methonght I pressed thee. 

Flor. Hold ! this violence — 

Pes. Nay, do not talk of violence : 
You seemed a willing and a tender bride, 
And rushed into my bosom ! 

Flor. Count Pescara, 
I must not hear this mockery ! do not speak 
Of what you should not think ! this very day 
Shall bind me, with an everlasting vow, 
To him ! — ay, him ! I do not fear to tell it, 
To him my heart adores. 'Tis not to me 
You should unfold your horrid fancies. 

Pes. Mark me ! there's oft a prophecy in dreams. 

[Exit. 



SHIEL. 351 

Flor. [Alone.] Ha ! this means something. Well I 
know Pescara : 
His voice doth sound like Fate within my soul, 
That answers back in faint and trembling echoes. 
This horrid band of death, his fell commands, 
The terrors of his eye, his looks of destiny, 
All, all affright me ! If I must be wretched, 
O Heaven, don't let me know it ; leave me still 
The bliss of ignorance ! What if Pescara, 
Before Hemeya has adjured his creed, 
Should treacherously seize him ? 
Would that the rite were done ! 

\A distant symphony is heard. 
What seraph music floats upon my soul ? 
Methinks it is the organ's solemn swell, 
That from the church's aisles ascends to heaven. 
The holy rite proceeds ! sweet sounds, awake ! 
Awake again upon my raptured soul ! 

[A distant Chorus sings. 

CHORUS. 

The mystic light 

Has dawned upon his sight : 

He sees, and he believes. Rejoice, rejoice, 

With one acclaiming voice ! 

Strike, seraphs ! strike your harps, and through the sky 

Swell the full tide of rapturous melody ! 

[The curtain falls while Florinda kneels. 



OR THE STATUE. 
Evadne, a Noble Lady, Sister to Colonna, is unlawfully sought by the 
K' n g °f Naples; he surrounds her with artifices, which appear to 
16 



35 2 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

attaint her honour. Her Brother is also drawn into the King's toils, 
and is condemned to death. The King agrees to save Colonna' s life, 
if Evadne accedes to his proposals. She appears to consent, and ap- 
points to meet the King in " the Hall of Statues" in her late Fathers 
Castle. 

The Hall of Statues. 
The King, Colonna, Evadne. 

King. Colonna, my best friend, how shall I thank thee 
But where is my Evadne ? 

Col. There, my lord ! 

King. Colonna, I not only give thee life, 
But place thee near myself; henceforth thou wilt wear 
A nobler title in thy family, — 
And to thy great posterity we'll send 
My granted dukedom. 

Col. Sir, you honour me. 
My presence is no longer needed here. 

{Aside.) A word's consent dispatches them ! 

[Conceals himself behind the pillars. 

King. My fair Evadne ! lay aside thy sad 
And drooping aspect, in this hour of joy ! 
Stoop not thy head, that like a pale rose bends 
Upon its yielding stalk — thou hast no cause 
For such a soft abashment, for be sure 
I'll place thee high in honour. 

Eva. Honour, sir ! 

King. Yes ; I'll exalt thee into dignity, 
Adorn thy name with titles — All my court 
Shall watch the movement of thy countenance, 
Riches and power shall wait upon thy smile, 
And in the lightest bending of thy brow, 
Death and disgrace inhabit. 






SHIEL. 353 

Eva. And, my liege, >• 

That will inhabit my own heart ? 

King. My love ! 
Come, my Evadne — what a form is here ! 
The imaginers of beauty did of old 
O'er three rich forms of sculptured excellence 
Scatter the naked graces ; but the hand 
Of mightier nature hath in thee combined 
All varied charms together. 

Eva. You were speaking 
Of sculpture, Sir — I do remember me, 
You are deemed a worshipper of that high art. 
Here, my lord, [Pointing to the Statues. 

Is matter for your transports ! 

King. Fair Evadne ! 
Do you not mean to mock me ? Not to gaze 
On yonder lifeless marbles, did I come 
To visit you to-night, but in the pure 
And blue-veined alabaster of a breast, 
Richer than heaves the Parian that has wed 
The Florentine to immortality. 

Eva. You deem me of a light, capricious mood, 
But it were hard if (woman as I am) 
I could not use my sex's privilege — 
Though I should ask you for yon orb of light, 
That shines so brightly and so sadly there, 
And fills the ambient air with purity — 
Should you not fain, as 'tis the wont of those 
Who cheat a wayward child, to draw it down, 
And in the sheeted splendour of a stream 
To catch its shivering brightness ! — It is my pleasure 
That you should look upon these reverend forms 



354 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

That keep the likeness of mine ancestry — 
I must enforce you to it ! 

King. Wayward woman ! 
What arts does she intend, to captivate 
My soul more deeply in her toils ? 

Eva. Behold! [Going to a Statue. 

The glorious founder of my family ! 
It is the great Rodolpho ! — Charlemagne 
Did fix that sun upon his shield, to be 
His glory's blazoned emblem ; for at noon, 
When the astronomer cannot discern 
A spot upon the full-orbed disk of light, 
'Tis not more bright than his immaculate name ! 
With what austere and .dignified regard 
He lifts the type of purity, and seems 
Indignantly to ask, if aught that springs 
From blood of his, shall dare to sully it 
With a vapour of the morning ! 

King. It is well ; 
His frown has been attempered, in the lapse 
Of generations, to thy lovely smile. — 
I swear, he seems not of thy family. 
My fair Evadne, I confess, I hoped 
Another sort of entertainment here. 

Eva. Another of m ; ne ancestors, my liege — 
Guelfo, the murderer ! [Pointing to a Statue. 

King. The murderer ! 
I knew not that your family was stained 
With the reproach of blood. 

Eva. We are not wont 
To blush, though we may sorrow for his sin, 
If sin indeed it be. His castle walls 



SHIEL. 355 

Were circled in the siege of Saracens, — 
He had an only daughter, whom he prized 
More than you hold your diadem ; but when 
He saw the fury of the infidels 
Burst through his shattered gates, and on his child 
Dishonour's hand was lifted, with one blow 
He struck her to the heart, and with the other, 
He stretched himself beside her. 

King. Fair Evadne, 
I must no more indulge you, else, I fear, 
You would scorn me for my patience ;. prithee, love, 
No more of this wild fantasy ! 

Eva. My liege, 
But one remains, and when you have looked upon it, 
And thus complied with my request, you will find me 
Submissive to your own. Look here, my lord — 
Know you this statue ? [Pointing to a Statue. 

King. No, in sooth, I do not. 

Eva. Nay — look again — for I shall think but ill 
Of princely memories, if you can find 
Within the inmost chambers of your heart 
No image like to this. Look at that smile — 
That smile, my liege — look at it ! 

King. It is your father ! 

Eva. [Breaking into exultation.'] Ay! — 'tis indeed my 
father ! — 'tis my good, 
Exalted, generous, and god-like father ! 
Whose memory, though he had left his child 
A naked, houseless roamer through the world, 
Were an inheritance a princess might 
Be proud of for her dower ! It is my father ! 
Whose like in honour, virtue, and the fine 



35 6 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Integrity that constitutes a man, 
He hath not left behind him ! There's that smile, 
That like perpetual daylight shone about him, 
The clear and bright magnificence of soul ! 
Who was my father ? 

[ With a proud and conscious interrogatory. 

King. One, whom I confess 
Of high and many virtues. 

Eva. Is that all ? 
I will help your memory, and tell you, first. 
That the King of Naples looked among 
The noblest in his realm for that good man, 
To whom he might intrust your opening youth, 
And found him worthiest. In the eagle's nest, 
Early he placed you, and beside his wing 
You learned to mount to glory ! Underneath 
His precious care you grew, and you were once 
Thought grateful for his service. His whole life 
Was given to your uses, and his death — [King starts. 
Ha ! do you start, my lord ? On Milan's plain 
He fought beside you, and when he beheld 
A sword thrust at your bosom, rushed — it pierced him. 
He fell down at your feet, — he did, my lord ! 
He perished to preserve you ! — [Rushes to the Statue.~\ — 

Breathless image, 
Although no heart doth beat within that breast, 
No blood is in his veins, let me enclasp thee, 
And feel thee at my bosom. — Now, Sir, I am ready — 
Come and unloose these feeble arms, and take me ! — 
Ay, take me from this neck of senseless stone, — 
And to reward the father with the meet 
And wonted recompense that princes give — 



SHIEL. 357 

Make me as foul as bloated pestilence, 

As black as the darkest midnight, and as vile 

As guilt and shame can make me. 

King, She has smitten 
Compunction through my soul ! 

Eva. Approach, my lord ! 
Come, in the midst of all mine ancestry, 
Come, and unloose me from my father's arms — 
Come, if you dare, and in his daughter's shame, 
Reward him for the last drops of the blood 
Shed for his prince's life ! 

King. Thou hast wrought 
A miracle upon thy prince's heart, 
And lifted up a vestal lamp, to show 
My soul its own deformity — my guilt ! 

Eva. [Disengaging herself from the Statue.'] Ha! 
have you got a soul ? — have you yet left, 
Prince as you are, one relic of a man ? 
Have you a soul ? — He trembles — he relents — 
I read it in the glimmering of his face ; 
And there's a tear, the bursting evidence 
Of Nature's holy working in the heart ! 

Heaven, he weeps ! my sovereign, my liege ! 
Heart do not burst in ecstasy too soon ! 

My brother ! my Colonna ! — hear me — hear ! 
In all the wildering triumph of my soul, 

1 call upon thee ! [ Turning, she perceives Colonna ad- 

vancing from among the Statues. 
There he is — my brother ! 

Col. Let me behold thee, 
Let me compress thee here ! — O my dear sister ! 
A thousand times mine own ! — I glory in thee, 



35 8 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

More than in all the heroes of my name ! — 

I overheard your converse, and methought 

It was a blessed spirit that had ta'en 

Thy heavenly form, to show the wondering world 

How beautiful was virtue ! — \To the King.] Sir, — 

Eva. Colonna, 
There is your king ! 

Col. Thou hast made him so again ! 
Thy virtue hath recrowned him — and I kneel 
His faithful subject here ! 

King, x^rise, Colonna ! 
You take the attitude that more befits 
The man who would have wronged you, but whose heart 
Was by a seraph called again to Heaven ! 
Forgive me ! 

Col. Yes, with all my soul I do ! 



Satme pannes. 

CONSCIENCE; OR, THE BRIDAL NIGHT. 

Lorenzo, a ruined Venetian, marries, Elmira, Daughter of his deadliest 
Enemy , and the Niece of one to ivhose Death he, in secret, had been a 
Party. Lorenzo describes to his Friend Julio the stings of Con- 
science, and the fears accompanying the Bridal Night. 

Lorenzo, Julio. 

Lorenzo I had thoughts 

Of dying ; but pity bids me live ! 

Julio. Yes, live, and still be happy, 

Lor. Never, Julio ; 
Never again : even at my bridal hour 



11 A YNES. 359 

Thou sawest Detection, like a witch, look on 

And smile, and mock at the solemnity, 

Conjuring the stars. Hark ! was not that a noise ? 

Jul. No ; all is still. 

Lor. Have none approached us ? 

Jul. None. 

Lor. Then 'twas my fancy. Every passing hour 
Is crowded with a thousand whisperers ; 
The night has lost its silence, and the stars 
Shoot Hre upon my soul. Darkness itself 
Has objects for mine eyes to gaze upon, 
And sends me terror when I pray for sleep 
In vain upon my knees. Nor ends it here ; 
My greatest dread of all — Detection — casts 
Her shadow on my walk, and startles me 
At every turn : sometime will reason drag 
Her frightful chain of probable alarms 
Across my mind ; or if, fatigued, she droops, 
Her pangs survive the while ; as you have seen 
The ocean tossing when the wind is down, 
And the huge storm is dying on the waters. 
Once, too, I had a dream 

Jul. The shadows of our sleep should fly with sleep ; 
Nor hang their sickness on the memory. 

Lor. Methought the dead man, rising from his tomb, 

Frowned over me. Elmira, at my side, 

Stretched her fond arms to shield me from his wrath, 

At which he frowned the more. I turned away, 

Disgusted, from the spectre, and essayed 

To clasp my wife ; but she was pale, and cold, 

And in her breast the heart was motionless, 

And on her limbs the clothing of the grave, 
1 6* 



360 G OLDEN LEAVES. 

With here and there a worm, hung heavily. 
Then did the spectre laugh, till from its mouth 
Blood dropped upon us while it cried — " Behold ! 
Such is the bridal bed that waits thy love !" 
I would have struck it (for -my rage was up) ; 
I tried the blow ; but, all my senses shaken 
By the convulsion, broke the tranced spell, 
And darkness told me — sleep was my tormentor. 



Brjmn tDaller proctor (I3arrg (Kormtmll). 

MIRANDOL A. 

A doting Husbands Love. 

Duke Mirandola, Duchess Isidora. 

Duke. My own sweet love ! Oh ! my dear peerless wife ! 
By the blue sky and all its crowding stars, 
I love you better — oh ! far better than 
Woman was ever loved. There's not an hour 
Of day or dreaming night but I am with thee : 
There's not a wind but whispers of thy name, 
And not a flower that sleeps beneath the moon 
But in its hues or fragrance tells a tale 
Of thee, my love, to thy Mirandola. 
Speak, dearest Isidora, can you love 
As I do ? Can — but no, no ; I shall grow 
Foolish if thus I talk. You must be gone ; 
You must be gone, fair Isidora, else 
The business of the dukedom soon will cease. 
I speak the truth, by Dian. Even now 



MISS MITFORD. 3 61 

Gheraldi waits without (or should) to see me. 
In faith, you must go : one kiss ; and so, away. 

Isidora. Farewell, my lord. 

Duke, We'll ride together, dearest, 
Some few hours hence. 

Isid. Just as you please ; farewell. [Exit 

Duke. Farewell ; with what a waving air she goes 
Along the corridor. How like a fawn ; 
Yet statelier. Hark ! no sound, however soft 
(Nor gentlest echo), telleth when she treads ; 
But every motion of her shape doth seem 
Hallowed by silence. Thus did Hebe grow 
Amidst the gods, a paragon ; and thus — 
Away ! I'm grown the very fool of love. 



Hlt00 fflitforb. 

RIENZI. 



Cola di Rienzi (afterwards the last of the Tribunes) heads the People, 
to overthrew the powerful Faction of the Ursini, and other despotic 
Nobles, who tyrannize over Rome. Angelo Colonna, instigated 
by love for Claudia, Rienzi's Daughter, and hate towards the rival 
House of Ursini, attends a Meeting of the People assembled by Rienzi 
to declare and redress their Wrongs. 

Rome. — Before the Gates of the Capitol. 
Alberti, Paolo, Citizens. 

1st Citizen. This is the chosen spot. A brave assemblage ! 
2d Cit. Why, yes. No marvel that Rienzi struck 
So bold a blow. I had heard shrewd reports 



362 G OLDEN LEAVES. 

Of heats, and discontents, and gathering bands, 
But never dreamed of Cola. 

Pao. 'Tis the spot ! 
Where loiters he ? The night wears on apace. 

Alberti, It is not yet the hour. 

\st Cit. Who speaks? 

Another Cit. Alberti, 
The captain of the guard; he and his soldiers 
Have joined our faction. 

Alb. Comrades, we shall gain 
An easy victory. The Ursini, 

Drunk with false hope and brute debauch, feast high 
Within their palace. Never wore emprise 
A fairer face. 

Pao. And yet the summer heaven, 
Sky, moon, and stars, are overcast. The saints 

Send that this darkness 

# 

Enter Rienzi. 

Rie. [Advancing to the front .] Darkness! did ye never 
Watch the dark glooming of the thunder-cloud, 
Ere the storm burst? We'll light this darkness, Sir, 
With the brave flash of spear and sword. 

All the Citizens shout. Rienzi ! 
Live, brave Rienzi ! honest Cola ! 

Rie. Friends ! 

Citizens. Long live Rienzi ! 

Alb. Listen to him. 

Rie. Friends, 
I come not here to talk. Ye know too well 
The story of our thraldom. We are slaves ! 
The bright sun rises to his course, and lights 



MISS MIT FORD. 363 

A race of slaves ! — He sets, and his last beam 
Falls on a slave — 

Slaves to a horde 
Of petty tyrants, feudal despots; lords 
Rich in some dozen paltry villages — 
Strong in some hundred spearmen, — only great 
In that strange spell — -a name. Each hour, dark fraud, 
Or open rapine, or protected murder, 
Cry out against them. But this very day, 
An honest man, my neighbour — [Pointing to Paolo] — 

there he stands, — 
Was struck, — struck like a dog, by one who wore 
The badge of Ursini ; because, forsooth, 
He tossed not high his ready cap in air, 
At sight of that great ruffian. Be we men, 
And suffer such dishonour ? Men, and wash not 
The stain away in blood ? Such shames are common : 
I have known deeper wrongs. I that speak 'to ye, 
I had a brother once — 

How I loved 
That gracious boy ! Younger by fifteen years, 
Brother at once and son ! " He left my side ; 
A summer bloom on his fair cheeks, — a smile 
Parting his innocent lips." In one short hour 
The pretty harmless boy was slain ! I saw 
The corse, the mangled corse, and then I cried 
For vengeance ! — Rouse, ye Romans ! 
Have ye brave sons ? — Look in the next fierce brawl 
To see them die. Have ye fair daughters ? — Look 
To see them live, torn from your arms, distained, 
Dishonoured ; and, if ye dare call for justice, 
Be answered by the lash. Yet, this is Rome, 



364 G OLDEN LEAVES. 

That sate on her seven hills, and from her throne 
Of beauty ruled the world ! 

Once again, I swear, 
The eternal city shall be free ; her sons 
Shall walk with princes.- Ere to-morrow's dawn, 
The tyrants 

First Cit. Hush ! Who passes there? [Citizens retire 

back. 

Alb. A foe, 
By his proud bearing. Seize him. 

Rie. As I deem, 
'Tis Angelo Colonna. Touch him not, — 
I would hold parley with him. Good Alberti, 
The hour is nigh. Away ! [Exit Alberti. 

Enter Angelo Colonna. 
Now, Sir ! [ To Angelo. 

Ang. What be ye, 
That thus in stern and watchful mystery 
Cluster beneath the veil of night, and start 
To hear a stranger's foot ? 

Rie. Romans. 

Ang. And wherefore 
Meet ye, my countrymen ? 

Rie. For freedom. 

Ang. Surely 
Thou art Cola di Rienzi ? 

Rie. Ay, that voice — 
The traitor voice. 

Ang. I knew thee by the words. 
Who, save thyself, in this bad age, when man 
Lies prostrate like yon temple, dared conjoin 
The sounds of Rome and freedom ? 



MISS MITFOBD. 365 

Rie. I shall teach 
The world to blend those words, as in the days 
Before the Caesars. Thou shalt be the first 
To hail the union. I have seen thee hang 
On tales of the world's mistress ; thy young hand 
Hath clinched thy maiden sword. Unsheath it now, — 
Now, at thy country's call ! What, dost thou pause ? 
Is the flame quenched ? Dost falter ? Hence with thee, 
Pass on ! pass whilst thou may ! 

Ang. Hear me, Rienzi. 
Even now my spirit leaps up at the thought 
Of those brave storied days — a treasury 
Of matchless visions, bright and glorified, 
Paling the dim lights of this darkling world 
With the golden blaze of heaven ; but past and gone, 
As clouds of yesterday, as last night's dream. 

Rie. A dream ! Dost see yon phalanx; still and stern ? 
An hundred leaders, each with such a band, 
Wait with suppressed impatience till they hear 
The great bell of the Capitol, to spring 
At once on their proud foes. Join them. 

Ang. My father ! 

Rie. Already he hath quitted Rome. 

Ang, My kinsmen ! 

Rie, We are too strong for contest. Thou shalt see 
No other change within our peaceful streets 
Than that of slaves to freemen. Such a change 
As is the silent step from night to day, 
From darkness into light. We talk too long. 

Ang. Yet reason with them ; — warn them. 

Rie. And their answer — 
Will be the jail, the gibbet, or the axe 



366 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

The keen retort of power. Why, I have reasoned ; 
And, but that I am held, amongst your great ones, 
Half madman and half fool, these bones of mine 
Had whitened on yon wall. Warn them ! They met 
At every step dark warnings. 

Friend met friend, nor smiled, 
Till the last footfall of the tyrant's steed 
Had died upon the ear. 

Sir, the boys, — 
The unfledged boys, march at their mother's hist, 
Beside their grandsires ; even the girls of Rome, — 
The gentle and the delicate, array 
Their lovers in this cause. I have one yonder, 
Claudia Rienzi, — thou hast seen the maid — 
A silly trembler, a slight fragile toy, 
As ever nursed a dove, or reared a flower — 
Yet she, even she, is pledged — 

Ang. To whom ? to whom ? 

Rie. To liberty. 
A king's son 

Might kneel in vain for Claudia. None shall wed her, 
Save a true champion of the cause. 

Ang. I'll join ye : [Gives his hand to Rienzi. 

How shall I swear ? 

Rie. [To the People^ Friends, comrades, countrymen ! 
I bring unhoped-for aid. Young Angelo 
Craves 
To join your band. 

All the Citizens shout — He's welcome! [Coining for- 
ward, 

Ang. Hear me swear 
By Rome — by freedom — by Rienzi ! Comrades, 



MISS MIT FORD. 367 

How have ye titled your deliverer ? consul — 
Dictator, emperor ? 

Ric No: 
Those names have been so often steeped in blood. 
So sham j 1 by folly, so profaned by sin, 
The sound seems ominous, — I'll none of them. 
Call me the Tribune of the people ; there 
My honouring duty lies. 

[ The Citizens shout, Hail to our Tribune ! — The bell 
sounds thrice ; shouts again ; and a military band 
is heard playing a march without. 
Hark— the bell, the bell ! 
That, to the city and the plain, 
Proclaims the glorious tale 

Of Rome reborn, and Freedom. See, the clouds 
Are swept away, and the moon's boat of light 
Sails in the clear blue sky, and million stars 
Look out on us, and smile. 

[ The gate of the Capitol opens, and Alberti and Soldiers 
join the People, and lay the keys at RiE^zi'sJeet. 
Hark ! that great voice 

Hath broke our bondage. Look, without a stroke 
The Capitol is won — the gates unfold — 
The keys are at our feet. Alberti, friend, 
How shall I pay the service ? Citizens ! 
First to possess the palace citadel — 
The famous strength of Rome ; then to sweep on, 
Triumphant, through her streets. 

[As Rienzi and the People are entering the Capitol, he 
pauses. 
Oh, glorious wreck 
Of gods and Caesars ! thou shalt reign again, 



368 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Queen of the world ; and I — come on, come on, 
My people ! 

[Citizens. Live Rienzi — live our Tribune ! 

[Exeunt through the gates, into the Capitol. 
* % * * * * 

Rienzi rules as Tribune, until the People again revolt. They sacrifice 
Rienzi, ivho dies " the last of the Tribunes" 

Rienzi, Soldiers and Citizens. 

Citizens. Down with the tyrant ! Down with Rienzi ! 

Rienzi. Who calls upon Rienzi ? Citizens, 
What seek ye of your Tribune ? .... why come ye ? 

zd Cit. For vengeance, perjured tyrant ! for thy blood — 
for liberty ! 

Rie. For liberty ! Go seek 
The mountain-tops, where with the crashing pines 
The north wind revels ; 
Go where the eagle or the sea-snake dwell ; 
Midst mighty elements, where nature is, 
And man is not, and ye may see afar, 
Impalpable as a rainbow on the clouds, 
The glorious vision, Liberty ! I dreamed 
Of such a goddess once; dreamed that yon slaves 
Were Romans, such as ruled the world, and I 
Their Tribune ; vain and idle dream ! Take back 
The symbol and the power. What seek ye more ? 

1 st Cit. Tyrant ! thy life ! 

Rie. Come on. Why pause ye, cowards ? 
I am unarmed. My breast is bare. Why pause ye ? 

Enter Claudia ; she rushes forward to Rienzi. — The Peo- 
ple surround him. 
Rie. Drag her from my neck, 



BED DOES. 369 

If ye be men ! Save her ! She never harmed 
A worm. My Claudia, bless thee ! bless thee ! Now — 
now ! — 
[Rienzi falls, pierced by many spears, and the People 
divide, leaving Claudia stretched on her Father's body. 



(Stomas Ccmell JJtbboes. 

THE BRIDE'S TRAGEDY. 

Hesperus and Floribel, the young ivedded Lovers, are in a Garden, 
discoursing on the Beauties of Flowers. 

Hesperus, Floribel. 

Hesperus. See, here's a bower 
Of eglantine with honeysuckles woven, 
Where not a spark of prying light creeps in, 
So closely do the sweets enfold each other. 
'Tis twilight's home ; come in, my gentle love, 
And talk to me. So ! I've a rival here ; 
What's this that sleeps so sweetly on your neck ? 

Floribel. Jealous so soon, my Hesperus ? Look then, 
It is a bunch of flowers I pulled for you : 
Here's the blue violet, like Pandora's eye, 
When first it darkened with immortal life. 

ties. Sweet as thy lips. Fie on those taper fingers, 
Have they been brushing the long grass aside, 
To drag the daisy from its hiding-place, 
Where it shuns light, the Danae of flowers, 
With gold up-hoarded on its virgin lap ? 

Flo. And here's a treasure that I found by chance, 



370 G OLDEN LEAVES. 

A lily of the valley ; low it lay 

Over a mossy mound, withered and weeping, 

As on a fairy's grave. 

Hes. Of all the posy 
Give me the rose, though there's a tale of blood 
Soiling its name. In -elfin annals old 
'Tis writ, how Zephyr, envious of his love 
(The love he bare to Summer, who since then 
Has, weeping, visited the world), once found 
The baby Perfume cradled in a violet 
(Twas said the beauteous bantling was the child 
Of a gay bee, that in his wantonness 
Toyed with a pea-bud in a lady's garland) ; 
The felon winds, confederate with him, 
Bound the sweet slumberer with golden chains, 
Pulled from the wreathed laburnum, and together 
Deep cast him in the bosom of a rose, 
And fed the fettered wretch with dew and air. 



Jctmea Stjcrifran Jvnorolcs. 

VIRGINIUS. 
The Death of Virginia. 

Rome. — The Forum. 
Appius, Claudius, Lictors, and People. 
Appius. Well, Claudius,, are the forces 
At hand ? 

Claudius. They are, and timely, too ; the people 
Are in unwonted ferment. 



KNOWLES. 371 

App. There's something awes me at 
The thought of looking on her father ! 

Claud, Look 
Upon her, my Appius ! Fix your gaze upon 
The treasures of her beauty, nor avert it 
Till they are thine. Haste ! Your tribunal ! 
Haste ! [Appius ascends the tribunal. 

[Enter Numitorius, Icilius, Lucius, Citizens, Virginius 
leading his Daughter, Servia, and Citizens. A dead 
silence prevails, ,] 

Virginius, Does no one speak ? I am defendant here. 
Is silence my opponent ? Fit opponent 
To plead a cause too foul for speech ! What brow 
Shameless gives front to this most valiant cause, 
That tries its prowess 'gainst the honour of 
A girl, yet lacks the wit to know, that he 
Who casts off shame, should likewise cast off fe*ar — 
And on the verge o' the combat wants the nerve 
To stammer forth the signal ? 

App. You had better, 
Virginius, wear another kind of carriage ; 
This is not the fashion that will serve you. 

Vir. The fashion, Appius ! Appius Claudius, tell me 
The fashion it becomes a man to speak in, 
Whose property in his own child — the offspring 
Of his own body, near to him as is 
His hand, his arm — yea, nearer — closer far, 
Knit to his heart — I say, who has his property 
In such a thing, the very self of himself, 
Disputed — and I'll speak so, Appius Claudius ; 
I'll speak so. — Pray you tutor me ! 



37 2 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

App. Stand forth, 
Claudius ! If you lay claim to any interest 
In the question now before us, speak ; if not, 
Bring on some other cause. 

Claud. Most noble Appius — 

Vir. And are you the man 
That claims my daughter for his slave ?— Look at me 
And I will give her to thee. 

Claud. She is mine, then : 
Do I not look at you ? 

Vir. Your eye does, truly, 
But not your soul. I see it through your eye, 
Shifting and shrinking — turning every way 
To shun me. You surprise me, that your eye, 
So long the bully of its master, knows not 
To put a proper face upon a lie, 
But gives the port of impudence to falsehood 
When it would pass it off for truth. Your soul 
Dares as soon show its face to me. Go on, 
I had forgot ; the fashion of my speech 
May not please Appius Claudius. 

Claud. I demand 
Protection of the Decemvir ! 

App. You shall have it. 

Vir. Doubtless ! 

App. Keep back the people, Lictors ! What's 
Your plea ? You say the girl's your slave. Produce 
Your proofs. 

Claud. My proof is here, which, if they can, 
Let them confront. The mother of the girl — 

[Virginius, stepping forward, is withheld by 

NUMITORIUS. 



KNOWLES. 373 

Numitorius. Hold, brother ! Hear them out, or suffer me 
To speak. 

Vir. Man, I must speak, or else go mad ! 
And if I do go mad, what then will hold me 
From speaking ? She was thy sister, too ! 
Well, well, speak thou. I'll try, and if I can, 
Be silent. [Retires. 

Num. Will she swear she is her child ? 

Vir. [Starting forward.'] To be sure she will — a most 
• wise question that ! 
Is she not his slave ? Will his tongue lie for him — 
Or his hand steal — or the linger of his hand 
Beckon, or point, or shut, or open for him ? 
To ask him if she'll swear ! Will she walk or run, 
Sing, dance, or wag her head ; do any thing 
That is most easy done ? She'll as soon swear ! 
What mockery it is to have one's life 
In jeopardy by such a barefaced trick ! 
Is it to be endured ? I do protest 
Against her oath ! 

App. No law in Rome, Virginius, 
Seconds you. If she swear the girl's her child, 
The evidence is good, unless confronted 
By better evidence. Look you to that, 
Virginius. I shall take the woman's oath. 

Virginia. Icilius. 

Icilius. Fear not, love : a thousand oaths 
Will answer her. 

App. You swear the girl's your child, 
And that you sold her to Virginius' wife, 
Who passed her for her own. Is that your oath ? 

Slave. It is my oath. 



374 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

App, Your answer now, Virginius. 

Vir. Here it is ! [Brings Virginia forward. 

Is this the daughter of a slave ? I know 
'Tis not with men as shrubs and trees, that by 
The shoot you know the rank and order of 
The stem. Yet who from such a stem would look 
For such a shoot. My witnesses are these — 
The relatives and friends of Numitoria, 
Who saw her, ere Virginia's birth, sustain 
The burden which a mother bears, nor feels 
The weight with longing for the sight of it. 
Here are the ears that listened to her sighs 
In nature's hour of labour, which subsides 
In the embrace of joy — the hands, that when 
The day first looked upon the infant's face, 
And never looked so pleased, helped them up to it, 
And blessed her for a blessing. Here, the eyes 
That saw her lying at the generous 
And sympathetic fount, that at her cry 
Sent forth a stream of liquid living pearl 
To cherish her enamelled veins. The lie 
Is most unfruitful then, that takes the flower- — 
The very flower our bed connubial grew — 
To prove its barrenness ! Speak for me, friends ; 
Have I not spoke the truth ? 

Women and Citizens, You have, Virginius. 

App, Silence ! Keep silence there ! No more of that ! 
You're very ready for a tumult, citizens. [ Troops appear 
Lictors, make way to let these troops advance ! [behind. 
We have had a taste of your forbearance, masters, 
And wish not for another. 

Vir. Troops in the Forum ! 



KNOWLES. 375 

App. Virginius, have you spoken ? 

Vir. If you have heard me, 
I have ; if not, I'll speak again. 

App. You need not, 
Virginius ; I had evidence to give, 
Which, should you speak a hundred times again, 
Would make your pleading vain. 

Vir. Your hand, Virginia ! 
Stand close to me. [Aside. 

App. My conscience will not let me 
Be silent. 'Tis notorious to you all, 
That Claudius' father, at his death, declared me 
The guardian of his son. This cheat has long 
Been known to me. I know the girl is not 
Virginius' daughter. 

Vir. Join your friends, Icilius > 
And leave Virginia to my care. [Aside. 

App. The justice 
I should have done my client unrequired, 
Now cited by him, how shall I refuse ? 

Vir. Don't tremble, girl ! don't tremble. [Aside. 

App. Virginius, 
I feel for you ; but, though you were my father, 
The majesty of justice should be sacred — 
Claudius must take Virginia home with him ! 

Vir. And if he must, I should advise him, Appius, 
To take her home in time, before his guardian 
Complete the violation which his eyes 
Already have begun. — Friends ! fellow-citizens ! 
Look net on Claudius — look on your Decemvir ! 
He is the master claims Virginia ! 
The tongues that told him she was not my child 
*7 



$76 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Are these — the costly charms he cannot purchase, 

Except by making her the slave of Claudius, 

His client, his purveyor, that caters for 

His pleasures — markets for him — picks, and scents, 

And tastes, that he may banquet — serves him up • 

His sensual feast, and is not now ashamed, 

In the open, common street, before your eyes — 

Frighting your daughters' and your matrons' cheeks 

With blushes they ne'er thought to meet— to help him 

To the honour of a Roman maid ! my child ! 

Who now clings to me, as you sec, as if 

This second Tarquin had already coiled 

His arms around her. Look upon her, Romans ! 

Befriend her ! succour her ! see her not polluted 

Before her father's eyes ! — He is but one. 

Tear her from Appius and his Lictors while 

She is unstained. — Your hands ! your hands ! your hands ! 
Citizens. They are yours, Virginius. 
App. Keep the people back — 

Support my Lictors, soldiers ! Seize the girl, 

And drive the people back. 

Icilius. Down with the slaves ! 

[ The People make a show of resistance : but, upon the 
advance of the Soldiers, retreat, and leave Icilius, Vir- 
ginius, and his Daughter, &c. in the hands of Appius 
and his party.~\ 

Deserted ! — Cowards ! traitors ! Let me free 

But for a moment ! I relied on you ; 

Had I relied upon myself alone, 

I had kept them still at bay ! I kneel to you— 

Let me bat loose a moment, if 'tis only 

To rush upon your swords. 



KNOWLES. 377 

Vir. Icilius, peace ! 
You see how 'tis, we are deserted, left 
Alone by our friends, surrounded by our enemies, 
Nerveless and helpless. 

App. Separate them, Lictors ! 

Vir, Let them forbear awhile, I pray you, Appius : 
It is not very easy. Though her arms 
Are tender, yet the hold is strong by which 
She grasps me, Appius — forcing them will hurt them ; 
They'll soon unclasp themselves. Wait but a little — 
You know you're sure of her ! 

App. I have not time 
To idle with thee • give her to my Lictors. 

Vir, Appius, I pray you wait ! If she is not 
My child, she hath been like a child to me 
For fifteen years. If I am not* her father, 
I have been like a father to her, Appius, 
For even such a time. They that have* lived 
So long a time together, in so near 
And dear society, may be allowed 
A little time for parting. Let me take 
The maid aside, I pray you, and confer 
A moment with her nurse ; perhaps she'll give me 
Some token will unloose a tie so twined 
And knotted round my heart, that, if you break it, 
My heart breaks with it. 

App. Have your wish. Be brief! 
Lictors, look to them. 

Virginia. Do you go from me ? 
Do you leave ? Father ! Father ! 

Vir. No, my child — 
No, my Virginia — come along with me. 



y/S GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Virginia. Will you not leave me ? Will you take me 
with you ? 
Will you take me home again ? Oh, bless you ! bless you ! 
My father ! my dear father ! Art thou not 
My father ? 
[Virginius, perfectly at a loss what to do, looks anxiously 

around the Forum ; at length his eye falls on a butcher's 

stall, with a knife upon it.~\ 

Fir. This way, my child. — No, no ; I am not going 
To leave thee, my Virginia ! Pll not leave thee. 

App. Keep back the people, soldiers ! Let them not 
Approach Virginius ! Keep the people back ! 

[Virginius secures the knife. 
Well, have you done ? 

Vir. Short time for converse, Appius, 
But I have. 

App. I hope you are satisfied. 

Vir. I am — 
I am — that she is my daughter ! 

App. Take her, Lictors ! [Virginia shrieks, and falls 
half -dead upon her Father's shoulder. 

Vir. Another moment, pray you. Bear with me 
A little — 'Tis my last embrace. 'Twon't try 
Your patience beyond bearing, if you're a man ! 
Lengthen it as I may, I cannot make it 
Long. My dear child ! My dear Virginia ! [Kissing her. 
There is one only way to save thine honour — 
'Tis this. [Stabs her, and draws out the knife. Icilius 
breaks from the Soldiers that held him, and catches her. 
Lo, Appius, with this innocent blood 
I do* devote thee to the infernal gods ! 
Make way there ! 



KNOWLES. 379 

App. Stop him ! Seize him ! 

Vir. If they dare 
To tempt the desperate weapon that is maddened 
With drinking my daughter's blood, why, let them ; thus 
It rushes in amongst them Way there ! Way ! 

[Exit through the Soldiers. 



THE WIFE: A TALE OF MANTUA. 

Mariana's Story of her Love. 

Mariana, Ward of the Curate Antonio, is betrothed to Leonardo 
Gonzaga, Duke of Milan, ivho, disguised as a Peasant, has ivon her 
heart. The Duke leaves Mariana, and during his absence her hand 
is sought by Count Florio, whose suit is supported by Ferrado, 
usurping Duke of Milan. Mariana rejects the Count, and proceeds 
to Mantua, and relates her Story to Lorenzo, an Advocate, Nephew 
to Antonio. 

Antonio, Mariana, and Lorenzo. 

Antonio. Lo, nephew ! here's the maid, 
To answer for herself! 

Lorenzo. Guardian — is he your relation too ? 

Mariana. No, — would he were ! That stay had needs 
be strong, 
Which failing, we've no other left to cling to. 

* Hi Hi * Hi 

Lor. Gave you promise to the Count ? 
Mar. None ! 

Lor. Nor encouragement ? 
Mar. Such as aversion 
Gives to the thing it loathes. 



380 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Lor. Have you a vow 
Or promise to another ? — that were a plea 
To justify rejection. You are silent. 
And yet you speak — if blushes speak, as men 
Declare they do. Come, come, I know you love. 
Give me to know the story of your love, 
That, thereupon, I found my proper plea 
To show your opposition not a thing 
Of fantasy, caprice, or forwardness, 
But that for which all hearers shall commend you, 
Proves it the joint result of heart and reason, 
Each other's act approving. Was't in Mantua 
You met ? 

Mar. No, Signor; in my native land. 

Lor. And that is — 

Mar. Switzerland. 

Lor. His country too ? 

Mar. No, Signor, he belonged to Mantua. 

Lor. That's right — you are collected and direct 
In your replies. I dare be sworn your passion 
Was such a thing, as by its neighbourhood 
Made piety and virtue twice as rich 
As e'er they were before. How grew it ? Come, 
Thou know'st thy heart — look calmly into it, 
And see how innocent a thing it is 
Which thou dost fear to show. I wait your answer, 
How grew your passion ? 

Mar. As my stature grew, 
Which rose without my noting it, until 
They said I was a woman. I kept watch 
Beside what seemed his death-bed. From beneath 
An avalanche my father rescued him, 



KKOWLES. 381 

The sole survivor of a company 

Who wandered through our mountains. A long time 

His life was doubtful, Signor, and he called 

For help, whence help alone could come, which I, 

Morning and night, invoked along with him. 

So first our souls did mingle ! 

Lor. I perceive : — you mingled souls until you mingled 
hearts ? 
You loved at last. Was't not the sequel, maid ? 

Mar. I loved, indeed ! If I but nursed a flower 
Which to the ground the rain and wind had beaten, 
That flower of all our garden was my pride ; 
What then was he to me, for whom I thought 
To make a shroud, when, tending on him still 
With hope, that baffled still, did still keep up, 
I saw at last the ruddy dawn of health 
Begin to mantle o'er his pallid form, 
And glow — and glow — till forth at last 'it burst 
Into confirmed, broad, and glorious day ! 

Lor. You loved, and did he love ? 

Mar. To say he did, 
Were to affirm what oft his eyes avouched, 
What many an action testified — and yet — 
What wanted confirmation of his tongue. 
But if he loved — it brought him not content ! 
'Twas now abstraction — now a start — anon 
A pacing to and fro — anon, a stillness, 
As naught remained of life, save life itself, 
And feeling, thought, and motion, were extinct ! 
Then all again was action ! Disinclined 
To converse, save he held it with himself; 
Which oft he did, in moody vein discoursing, 



3§2 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

And ever and anon invoking Honour, 

As some high contest there were pending, 'twixt 

Himself and him, wherein her aid he needed. 

Lor. This spoke impediment : or he was bound 
By promise to another; or had friends 
Whom it behooved him to consult, and doubted ; 
Or 'twixt you lay disparity too wide 
For Love itself to leap. 

Mar. I saw a struggle, 
But knew not what it was. I wondered still, 
That what to me was all content, to him 
Was all disturbance ; but my turn did come. 
At length he talked of leaving us ; at length 
He fixed the parting day — but kept it not. 

how my heart did bound ! Then first I knew 
It had been sinking. Deeper still it sank 
When next he fixed to go : and sank it then 

To bound no more ! He went. 

Lor. To follow him, 
You came to Mantua ? 

Mar. What could I do ? 
Cot, garden, vineyard, rivulet, and wood, 
Lake, sky, and mountain, went along with him — 
Could I remain behind ? My father found 
My heart was not at home ; he loved his child, 
And asked me, one day, whither we should go ? 

1 said, "to Mantua." I followed him 

To Mantua ! to breathe the air he breathed, 

To walk upon the ground he walked upon, 

To look upon the things he looked upon, 

To look, perchance, on him ! perchance to hear him, 

To touch him ! never to be known to him, 



KNOWLES. 383 

Till he was told, I lived and died his love. . . . 
****** 

Ant. Daughter, come. 
Some effort has it cost to tell your story, 
But profit comes of it ; — your cause is strong. 
Your vows, which virtually are another's, 
Heaven doth itself forbid you give the Count ! 
Is't not so, nephew ? 

Lor. There I'll found the plea, 
Which to the conscience of the Duke I'll put. 
Knows he — whom, at his death (which I'm advised 
Took place in Mantua) your father named 
Your guardian — knows the Commissary this, 
Which thou hast now related ? 

Mar. Not that I know of. 
My father's death was sudden. Long time since 
He and the Commissary were acquaintance ; 
What passed between them, save the testament 
Which left me ward unto the commissary, 
I am a stranger to. 

Lor. Since you came hither 
Have you seen him, for sake of whom you came ? 

Mar. No ! 

Lor. Nor hast clue direct, or indirect, 
To find him out ? 

Mar. No, Signor. 

Lor. And how long 
Have you sojourned in Mantua ? 

Mar. Two years. 

Lor. And is your love the same ? 

Mar. Am I the same ? 

Lor. Such constancy should win a blessing. 

17* 



384 G OLDEN LEAVES. 

Ant Yes! 

And strange as 'tis, what seems to us affliction 

Is oft a hand that helps us to our wish. 

So may it fall with thee — if Heaven approves ! 

Switzerland. 

The land of beauty, and of grandeur, lady, 
Where looks the cottage out on a domain 
The palace cannot boast of. Seas of lakes, 
And hills of forests ! crystal waves that rise 
Midst mountains all of snow, and mock the sun, 
Returning him his flaming beams more thick 
And radiant than he sent them. — Torrents there 
Are bounding floods ! and there the tempest roams 
At large, in all the terrors of its glory ! 
And then our valleys ! ah, they are the homes 
For hearts ! our cottages, our vineyards, orchards, — 
Our pastures studded with the herd and fold ! 
Our native strains that melt us as we sing them ! 
A free — a gentle — simple — honest people ! 



THE HUNCHBACK. 



What Lowe is. 



Love's not a flower that grows on the dull earth ; 
Springs by the calendar ; must wait for sun — 
For rain ; matures by parts, — must take its time 
To stem, to leaf, to bud, to blow. It owns 
A richer soil, and boasts a quicker seed : 
You look for it, and see it not ; and lo ! 






KNOWLES. 385 

E'en while you look, the peerless flower is up, 
Consummate in the birth. 

Passionate Love, contrasted with Discreet Love. 

Julia. What would you weigh 'gainst love 
That's true ? Tell me with what you'd turn the scale ? 
Yea, make the index waver ? Wealth ? A feather ! 
Rank ? Tinsel against bullion in the balance ! 
The love of kindred ? That to set 'gainst love ! 
Friendship comes nearest to't ; but put it in, 
And friendship kicks the beam ! — weigh nothing 'gainst it ; 
Weigh love against the world ! 
Yet are they happy that have naught to say to it. 

Walter. And such a one art thou. Who wisely wed, 
Wed happily. The love thou speak'st of, 
A flower is only, that its season has, 
Which they must look to see the withering of, 
Who pleasure in its budding and its bloom ; 
But wisdom is the constant evergreen 
Which lives the whole year through. Be that your flower ! 

Sacredness of Promises. 

A promise made, admits not of release, 
Save by consent or forfeiture of those 
Who hold it — so it should be pondered well 
Before we let it go. Ere man should say 
I broke the word I had the power to keep, 
I'd lose the life I had the power to part with ! 



386 G OLDEN LEAVE S. 

Kcd. djcnrg $art fttilman. 

FAZIO. 

Description of Bartolo, the Miser. 

Fazio, Bianca [his Wife). 

Fazio. Dost thou know, Bianca, 
Our neighbour, old Bartolo ? 

Bianca. Oh, yes, yes ! — 
That yellow wretch, that looks as he were stained 
With watching his own gold ; every one knows him, 
Enough to loathe him. Not a friend hath he, 
Nor kindred nor familiar ; not a slave, 
Not a lean serving-wench : nothing e'er entered 
But his spare self within his jealous doors, 
Except a wandering rat ; and that, they say, 
Was famine-struck, and died there. — What of him ? 

Faz. Yet he, Bianca, he is of our rich ones : 
There's not a galiot on the sea, but bears 
A venture of Bartolo's ; not an acre, 
Nay, not a villa of our proudest princes, 
But he hath cramped it with a mortgage ; he, 
He only stocks our prisons with his debtors. 
I saw him creeping home last night: he shuddered 
As he unlocked his door, and looked around 
As if he thought that every breath of wind 
Were some keen thief: and when he locked him in 
I heard the grating key turn twenty times, 
To try if all were safe. I looked again 
From our high window by mere chance, and saw 
The motion of his scanty, moping lantern ; 
And, where his wind-rent lattice was ill stuffed 



MIL MAN. 387 

With tattered remnants of a money-bag, 

Through cobwebs and thick dust I spied his fece, 

Like some dry, wither-boned anatomy, 

Through a huge chest-lid, jealously and scantily 

Uplifted, peering upon coin and jewels, 

Ingots and wedges, and broad bars of gold, 

Upon whose lustre the wan light shone muddily, 

As though the New World had outrun the Spaniard, 

And emptied all its mines in that coarse hovel. 

His ferret eyes gloated as wanton o'er them, 

As a gross Satyr on a sleeping Nymph ! 

And then, as he heard something like a sounds 

He clapped the lid to, and blew out the lantern. 

And I, Bianca, hurried to thy arms, 

And thanked my God that I had braver riches. 

Bartolo, attacked and wounded by Robber s y flies to the House of Fa 10 
for assistance, where he dies, Fazio, under the temptation of Gild, 
goes to the Miser's Dwelling, secures the whole of his Wealth, u?.d 
buries the Body of Bartolo in his Garden. 

The Street near Fazio's Door. — Fazio, with Bartolo's 
Gold and Jewels. 
Fazio. My steps were ever to this door, as though 
They trod on beds of perfume and of down. 
The winged birds were not by half so light, 
When through the lazy twilight air they wheel 
Home to their brooding mates. But now, methinks, 
The heavy earth doth cling around my feet. 
I move as every separate limb were gyved 
With its particular weight of manacl? 
The moonlight, that was wont to seem so soft, 
So balmy to the slow-respired breath, 
Icily, shiveringly cold falls on me. 



388 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

The marble pillars, that soared stately up, 

As though to prop the azure vault of heaven, 

Hang o'er me with a dull and dizzy weight. 

The stones whereon I tread do grimly speak, 

Forbidding echoes, ay, with human voices : 

Unbodied arms pluck at me as I pass, 

And socketless, pale eyes look glaring on me. 

But I have passed them : and methinks this weight 

Might strain more sturdy sinews than mine own. 

Howbeit, thank God, 'tis safe ! Thank God ! — for what ? 

That a poor honest man's grown a rich villain. [Exit. 

Poetry perverted to unworthy Uses. 

Oh, my lord, 'tis the curse and brand of poesy, 
That it must trim its fetterless, free plumes 
To the gross fancies of the humorsome age ; 
That it must stoop from its bold heights to court 
Liquorish opinion, whose aye wavering breath 
Is to it as the precious air of life. 
Oh ! in a capering, chambering, wanton land, 
The lozel's song alone gains audience — 
Fine loving ditties, sweet to sickliness ; 
The languishing and luscious touch alone 
Of all the full harp's ecstasies, can detain 
The palled and pampered ear of Italy. 
But, my lord, we have deeper mysteries 
For the initiate. — Hark ! — it bursts — it flows ! 

Fazio, condemned to Death for the supposed Murder of Bartolo, it 
'visited by his Friend Philario on the morning of his Execution. 

Fazio and Philario. 
Faz. I thank thee : 'twas a melancholy hymn, 
But soft and soothing as the gale of eve — 



EDWARD BULWER LYTTON. 389 

The gale whose flower-sweet breath no more shall pass o'er 

me. 
Oh, what a gentle ministrant is Music 
To Piety — to mild, to penitent Piety ! 
Oh, it gives plumage to the tardy prayer 
That lingers in our lazy earthly air, 

And melts with it to heaven. To die : 'tis dreary; 

To die a villain's death, that's yet a pang. 
But it must down : I have so steeped my soul 
In the bitter ashes of true penitence, 
That they have put on a delicious savour, 
And all is halcyon quiet, all within. — 
Bianca ! — where is she ? — why comes she not ? 
Yet I do almost wish her not to come, 
Lest she again enamour me of life. 



Sir €Dumrb Sultw Cgtton. 

RICHELIEU. 

Richelieu's Devotion to France. 
.... I love my native land — 
Not as Venetian, Englisher, or Swiss, 
But as a noble and a priest of France ; 
All things for France — lo, my eternal maxim ! 
The vital axle of the restless wheels 
That bear me on ! With her I have entwined 
My passions and my fate — my crimes, my virtues — 
Hated and loved, and schemed, and shed m.n's blood, 
As the calm crafts of Tuscan sages teach 
Those who would make their country great. Beyond 



39° G OLDEN LEA VES. 

The map of France, my heart can travel not, 

But fills that limit to the farthest ' verge ; 

And while I live — Richelieu and France are one. 

We priests, to whom the Church forbids in youth 

The plighted one — to manhood's toil denies 

The soother helpmate — from our withered age 

Shuts the sweet blossoms of the second spring 

That smiles in the name Father — we are yet 

Not holier than humanity, and must 

Fulfil humanity's condition — Love ! 

Debarred the actual, we but breathe a life 

To chill the marble of the ideal. Thus, 

In the unseen and abstract Majesty, 

My France — my country, I have bodied forth 

A thing to love. What are these robes of state, 

This pomp, this palace ? perishable bawbles ! 

In this world two things only are immortal — 

Fame and a people ! 

Richelieu 'vindicates his Acts as Minister. 

Adrien de Mauprat, men have called me cruel ; 
I am not; I am just! I found France rent asunder,- 
The rich men despots, and the poor banditti ; — 
Sloth in the mart, and schism within the temple ; 
Brawls festering to rebellion ; and weak laws 
Rotting away with rust in antique sheaths — 
I have re-created France ; and from the ashes 
Of the old feudal and decrepit carcase, 
Civilization on her luminous wings 
Soars — phoenix-like, to Jove ! — what was my art ? 
Genius, some say, — some fortune, — witchcraft, some. 
Not so ; my art was Justice ! — 



EDWARD BULWER LYTTON. 391 

- The Pen mightier than the Sivord. 

.... True this ! 
Beneath the rule of men entirely great, 
The pen is mightier than the sword. Behold 
The arch- enchanter's wand — itself a nothing! 
By taking sorcery from the master-hand 
To paralyze the Caesars, and to strike 
The loud earth breathless ! Take away the sword — 
States can be saved without it ! 

Richelieu reminds Louis of the Benefits attending his Administration. 

Lo, I appeal to Time ! Be just, my liege — 
I found your kingdom rent with heresies 
And bristling with rebellion ; lawless nobles 
And breadless serfs ; England fomenting discord ; 
Austria — her clutch on your dominion; Spain 
Forging the prodigal gold of either Ind . 
To armed thunderbolts. The arts lay dead, 
Trade rotted in your marts, your armies mutinous, 
Your treasury bankrupt. Would you now revoke 
Your trust, so be it ! and I leave you, sole, 
Supremest monarch of the mightiest realm, 
From Ganges to the Icebergs. Look without — 
No foe not humbled ! Look within ! the Arts 
Quit for our schools, their old Hesperides, 
The golden Italy ! while throughout the veins 
Of your vast empire flows in strengthening tides 
Trade, the calm health of nations ! Sire, I know 
Your smootner courtiers please you best, — nor measure 
Myself with them, — yet sometimes I would doubt 
If statesmen rocked and dandled into power 
Could leave such legacies to kings ! 



392 GOLDEN LEAVES, 



THE LADY OF LYONS. 

Claude Melnotte describes to Pauline, his Betrothed, a Palace by 
the Lake of Cotno. 

Melnotte. Nay, dearest, nay, if thou wouldst have me 
paint 
The home to which, could Love fulfil its prayers, 
This hand would lead thee, listen ! A deep vale 
Shut out by Alpine hills from the rude world, 
Near a clear lake, margined by fruits of gold 
And whispering myrtles ; glassing softest skies 
As cloudless, save with rare and roseate shadows, 
As I would have thy fate ! 

Pauline. My own dear love ! 

MeL A palace lifting to eternal summer 
Its marble walls, from out a glossy bower 
Of coolest foliage, musical with birds, 
Whose songs should syllable thy name ! At noon 
We sit beneath the arching vines, and wonder 
Why Earth could be unhappy, while the Heavens 
Still left us youth and love ! We'd have no friends 
That were not lovers ; no ambition, save 
To excel them all in love ; we'd read no books 
That were not tales of love — that we might smile 
To think how poorly eloquence of words 
Translates the poetry of hearts like ours ! 
And when night came, amidst the breathless heavens 
We'd guess what star should be our home when love 
Becomes immortal ; while the perfumed light 
Stole through the mists of alabaster lamps, 
And every air was heavy with the sighs 



EDWARD BULWER LTTTON. 393 

Of orange groves and music from sweet lutes, 
And murmurs of low fountains that gush forth. 

Melnotte describes his Love for Pauline, and its Consequences. 

Mel. Pauline ! by pride, 
Angels have fallen ere thy time ; by pride — 
That sole alloy of thy most lovely mould — 
The evil spirit of a bitter love, 
And a revengeful heart, had power upon thee. — 
From my first years, my soul was rilled with thee : 
I saw thee, midst the flowers the lowly boy 
Tended, unmarked by thee, a spirit of bloom, 
And joy, and freshness, as if Spring itself 
Were made a living thing, and wore thy shape ! 
I saw thee ! and the passionate heart of man 
Entered the breast of the wild-dreaming boy ; 
And from that hour I grew — what to the last 
I shall be — thine adorer ! Well ! this love, 
Vain, frantic, guilty, if thou wilt, became 
A fountain of ambition and bright hope : 
I thought of tales that by the winter hearth 
Old gossips tell — how maidens, sprung from Kings, 
Have stooped from their high sphere ; how Love, like Death, 
Levels all ranks, and lays the shepherd's crook 
Beside the sceptre. Thus I made my home 
In the soft palace of a fairy Future ! 
My father died ; and I, the peasant-born, 
Was my own lord. Then did I seek to rise 
Out of the prison of my mean estate ; 
And, with such jewels as the exploring Mind 
Brings from the caves of Knowledge, buy my ransom 
From those twin jailers of the daring heart — 



394 G OLDEN LEAVES. 

Low Birth and iron Fortune. Thy bright image, 

Glassed in my soul, took all the hues of glory, 

And lured me on to those inspiring toils 

By which man masters men ! 

A midnight student o'er the dreams of sages : 

For thee I sought to borrow from each Grace, 

And every Muse, such attributes as lend 

Ideal charms to Love. I thought of thee, 

And Passion taught me poesy — of thee ! 

And on the painter's canvas grew the life 

Of beauty — Art became the shadow 

Of the dear starlight of thy haunting eyes ! 

Men called me vain, some mad — I heeded not, 

But still toiled on, hoped on, for it was sweet, 

If not to win, to feel more worthy thee ! 

Pau. Has he a magic to exorcise Hate ? 

MeL At last, in one mad hour, I dared to pour 
The thoughts that burst their channels into song, 
And sent them to thee — such a tribute, lady, 
As Beauty rarely scorns, even from the meanest. 
The name — appended by the burning heart 
That longed to show its idol what bright things 
It had created — yea, the enthusiast's name, 
That should have been thy triumph, was thy scorn ! 
That very hour — when passion, turned to wrath, 
Resembled hatred most ; when thy disdain 
Made my whole soul a chaos — in that hour 
The tempters found me a revengeful tool 
For their revenge ! Thou hadst trampled on the worm- 
It turned and stung thee ! 






FANNY KEMBLE {BUTLER). 395 

tfxanud 2lnn Kembk. 

FRANCIS THE FIRST. 

The Current of Time. 

.... I do believe 
That at our feet the tide of time flows on 
In strong and rapid course ; nor is one current 
Or rippling eddy liker to the rest, 
Than is one age unto its predecessor : 
Men still are men, the stream is still a stream, 
Through every change of changeful tide and time: 
And 'tis, I fear, only our partial eye 
That lends a brighter sunbeam to the wave 
On which we launched our own adventurous bark. 

Tke Constancy of Filial Love. 

Bourbon, I had thought, Margaret, that Love forgot 
All ranks and all distinctions ? 

Margaret. Ay, so it doth — 
All ties the world, its wealth, its fame, or fortune, 
Can entwine ; but never those of Nature. 
So mine can give up all, save the first bond 
My heart e'er knew, — the love of those who gave 
Life and the power to love ; — those early links 
Lie wreathed like close-knit fibres round my heart, 
Never to sever thence till my heart break. 

Early Love. 

.... There's a love, which, born 
In early days, lives on through silent years, 
Nor ever shines, but in the hour of sorrow, 
When it shows brightest : like the trembling light 



39 6 G OLDEN LEAVES. 

Of a pale sunbeam, breaking o'er the face 
Of the wild waters in their hour of warfare. 

The Sacredness of Virtuous JVomen. 

.... I marvel 
At those who do not feel- the majesty — 
By Heaven ! I'd almost said the holiness — 
That circles round a fair and virtuous woman : 
There is a gentle purity that breathes 
In such a one, mingled with chaste respect, 
And modest pride of her own excellence — 
A shrinking nature, that is so adverse 
To aught unseemly, that I could as soon 
Forget the sacred love I owe to Heaven, 
As dare, with impure thoughts, to taint the air 
Inhaled by such a being — than whom, my liege, 
Heaven cannot look on any thing more holy, 
Or earth be proud of any thing more fair. 

Death on the Battle-field. 

Death comes in — on the bloody battle-field ; 

When with each gush of black and curdling life, 

A curse was uttered — when the prayers I've poured 

Have been all drowned with din of clashing arms ; 

And shrieks, and shouts, and loud artillery, 

That shook the slippery earth, all drunk with gore ; 

I've seen it, swollen with subtle poison, black 

And staring with concentrate agony ; 

When every vein hath started from its bed, 

And wreathed, like knotted snakes, around the brows 

Which, frantic, dashed themselves in tortures down 

Upon the earth. I've seen life float away 

On the faint sound of a far-tolling bell ; 



TALFOURD. 397 

Leaving its late warm tenement as fair, 
As though 'twere th' incorruptible that lay 
Before me ; and all earthly taint had vanished 
With the departed spirit. 



Sljomaa 5foon ©alfourb. 

ION. 

The Death of 'Ion. 

The Oracle at Delphi had announced that the vengeance which the mis- 
rule of the Race of Argos had brought on the People, in the form of a 
Pestilence, could only be disarmed by the Extirpation of the guilty 
Race ; and Ion (Son of Adrastus, late King of Argos), on assuming 
the Crown, resolves to sacrifice himself to save his Country. Ion is 
installed in his royal dignity, attended by the High Priests and Sena- 
tors, &f<r. The People receive him with shouts. 

Ion, Medon, Agenor, Crythes, Irus. 

Ion. I thank you for your greetings — shout no more. 
But in deep silence raise your hearts to Heaven, 
That it may strengthen one so young and frail 
As I am for the business of this hour. 
Must I sit here ? 

Medon. My son ! my son ! 
What ails thee ? When thou shouldst reflect the joy 
Of Argos, the strange paleness of the grave 
Marbles thy face. 

Ion. Am I indeed so pale ! 
It is a solemn office I assume, 
Which well may make me falter ; yet, sustained 



39 8 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

By thee and by the gods I serve, I take it. 

Stand forth, Agenor. [Sits on the Throne. 

Agenor. I await thy will. 

Ion. To thee I look as to the wisest friend 
Of this afflicted people ; thou must leave 
Awhile the quiet which* thy life has earned 
To rule our councils ; fill the seats of justice 
With good men, not so absolute in justice 
As to forget what human frailty is ; 
And order my sad country. 

Agenor. Pardon me — 

Ion. Nay, I will promise 'tis my last request ; 
Grant me thy help till this distracted state 
Rise tranquil from her griefs — 'twill not be long, 
If the great gods smile on us now. Remember, 
Meanwhile, thou hast all power my word can give, 
Whether I live or die. 

Agenor. Die ! Ere that hour, 
May even the old man's epitaph be moss-grown ! 

Ion. Death is not jealous of the mild decay 
That gently wins thee his ; exulting youth 
Provokes the ghastly monarch's sudden stride, 
And makes his horrid fingers quick to clasp 
His prey benumbed at noontide. Let me see 
The captain of the guard. 

Crythes. I kneel to crave 
Humbly the favour which thy sire bestowed 
On one who loved him well. 

Ion. I cannot mark thee, 
That wakest the memory of my father's weakness, 
But I will not forget that thou hast shared 
The light enjoyments of a noble spirit, 



TALFOURD. 399 

And learned the need of luxury. I grant 
For thee and thy brave comrades ample share 
Of such rich treasure as my stores contain, 
To grace thy passage to some distant land, 
Where, if an honest cause engage thy sword, 
May glorious issues wait it. In our realm 
We shall not need it longer. 

Crythes. Dost intend 
To banish the firm troops before whose valor 
Barbarian millions shrink appalled, and leave 
Our city naked to the first assault 
Of reckless foes ? 

Ion. No, Crythes ; in ourselves, 
In our honest hearts and chainless hands 
Will be our safeguard; while we do not use 
Our power towards others, so that we should blush 
To teach our children ; while the simple love 
Of justice and their country shall be born 
With dawning reason ; while their sinews grow 
Hard midst the gladness of heroic sports, 
We shall not need, to guard our walls in peace, 
One selfish passion, or one venal sword. 
I would not grieve thee ; but thy valiant troop — 
For I esteem them valiant — must no more 
With luxury, which suits a desperate camp, 
Infect us. See that they embark, Agenor, 
Ere night. 

Crythes. My lord — 

Ion. No more — my word hath passed. 
Medon, there is no office I can add 
To those thou hast grown old in : thou wilt guard 
The shrine of Phoebus, and within thy home — 
18 



4-00 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Thy too delightful home — befriend the stranger 
As thou didst me ; there sometimes waste a thought 
On thy spoiled inmate. 

Medon. Think of thee, my lord ? 
Long shall we triumph in thy glorious reign. 

Ion. Prithee no more. Argives ! I have a boon 
To crave of you. Whene'er I shall rejoin 
In death the father from whose heart in life 
Stern Fate divided me, think gently of him ! 
Think that beneath his panoply of pride 
Were fair affections crushed by bitter wrongs 
Which fretted him to madness ; what he did, 
Alas ! ye know ; could you know what he suffered, 
Ye would not curse his name. Yet never more 
Let the great interests of the state depend 
Upon the thousand chances that may sway 
A piece of human frailty ; swear to me 
That ye will seek hereafter in yourselves 
The means of sovereignty ; our country's space, 
So happy in its smallness, so compact, 
Needs not the magic of a single name, 
Which wider regions may require to draw 
Their interest into one ; but, circled thus, 
Like a blest family, by simple laws 
May tenderly be governed — all degrees, 
Not placed in dexterous balance, not combined 
By bonds of parchment, or by iron clasps, 
But blended into one — a single form 
Of nymph-like loveliness, which finest cords 
Of sympathy pervading, shall endow 
With vital beauty ; tint with roseate bloom 
In times of happy peace, and bid to flash 



TALFOURD. 401 

With one brave impulse, if ambitious bands 

Of foreign power should threaten. Swear to me 

That ye will do this ! 

Medon. Wherefore ask this now ? 
Thou shalt live long ; the paleness of thy face, 
Which late seemed death-like, is grown radiant now, 
And thine eyes kindle with the prophecy 
Of glorious years. 

Ion. The gods approve me then ! 
Yet I will use the function of a king, 
And claim obedience. Swear, that if I die 
And leave no issue, ye will seek the power 
To govern in the free-born people's choice, 
And in the prudence of the wise. 

Medon and others. We swear it ! 

Ion. Hear and record the oath, immortal powers ! 
Now give me leave a moment to approach 
That altar unattended. [He goes to the Altar. 

Gracious gods ! 
In whose mild service my glad youth was spent, 
Look on me now ; and if there is a power, 
As at this solemn time I feel there is, 
Beyond ye, that hath breathed through all your shapes 
The spirit of the Beautiful, that lives 
In earth and heaven ; to ye I offer up 
This conscious being, full of life and love, 
For my dear country's welfare. Let this blow 
End all her sorrows ! [Stabs himself. 

Enter Irus. 

Irus. I bring you glorious tidings — 
Ha ! no joy 
Can enter here. 



4-02 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Ion. Yes — is it as I hope ? 

Irus. The pestilence abates. 

Ion. [Springs to his feet.] Do ye not hear ? 
Why shout ye not ? ye are strong — think not of me ; 
Hearken ! the curse my ancestry had spread 
O'er Argos is dispelled !' 
The offering is accepted — all is well ! [Dies. 



GISIPPUS ; OR, THE FORGOTTEN FRIEND. 

Love's Changes. 

.... Passion hath its change of seasons, Sir; 
And 'twere as vain to hope eternal Summer, 
As an eternal faith. This is with you 
The Spring of courtship, which calls up the flowers, 
The fairest flowers of love — your blooming fancies — 
Your fragrant love-thoughts, murmuring sighs and prayers. 
But even as Nature's spring, Love's too must roll 
Away ; and then comes your adored honey-moon, 
Love's Summer of enjoyment; next, his Autumn 
Of lukewarm liking, verging to indifference — 
The time of shrugs and yawns, and absent thoughts. 
And then his Winter comes — frosty and dry, 
Sharp, biting, bitter ; cunning in cold taunts ; 
Making the evening hearth, so late a paradise, 
A place of harsh uncomfort. — Then, O Love! 
How suddenly thy changeful votaries 
Find thy Elysium void ! From the pale poet, 
Who wooed the groves in song-lorn melancholy, 



GRIFFIN. 403 

To him the blustering terror of the field,, 

Who sighed like Boreas, and who made love like war — 

All, weary grown of the ignoble bondage, 

Look back with scorn upon the yoke they've spurned, 

And wonder how the silly toy had power 

To make them sin so palpably 'gainst wisdom. 

The Sacredness of fPeddcd Love. 

Gis. Here in these silent groves we will attend 
The lighting of the Hymeneal torch. 
How pure, how holy is the sacrifice, 
That waits on virtuous love ! How sacred is 
The very levity we wake to honour it ! 
The fiery zeal that passion knows, is there 
Tempered by mild esteem and holiest reverence 
Into a still, unwasting, vestal flame, 
That wanders nor decays. All soft affections, 
Calm hopes, and quiet blessings, hover round, 
And soft Peace sheds her virtuous dews upon it ; 
No conscious memories haunt the path of pleasure, 
But happiness is made a virtue. 

The ivays of Providence inscrutable to Man. 

.... Let it be ever thus — 
The generous still be poor — the niggard thrive — 
Fortune shall pave the ingrate's path with gold, 
Death dog the innocent still — and surely those 
Who now uplift their streaming eyes, and murmur 
Against oppressive Fate, will own its justice. 
Invisible ruler ! should man meet thy trials 
With silent and lethargic sufferance, 
Or lift his hands and ask Heaven for a reason ? 
Our hearts must speak — the sting, the whip is on them ; 



404 G OLDEN LEAVES. 

We rush in madness forth to tear away 

The veil that blinds us to the cause. In vain ! 

The hand of that Eternal Providence 

Still holds it there, unmoved, impenetrable ! 

We can but pause, and turn away again 

To mourn — to wonder— and endure. 



Jfoljn Uanim. 

DAMON AND PYTHIAS. 

Damon, condemned to death by Dionysius, the Tyrant of Syracuse, obtains 
permission tc take a Farewell of his Wife and Child, through the 
intervention of his Friend Pythias, 'who consents to become a Hostage 
for Damon's return, at the hour appointed for his Execution. The 
time has arrived, and Damon has not returned. Calanthe, be- 
trothed Wife of Pythias, hurries despairingly to the place of Execu- 
tion, 

Scene — A Public Place in Syracuse. — A Scaffold, with 
steps ascending to it, upon the right hand. — In the back 
of the stage the Gates of a Prison. — Executioner with 
an axe, and Guards discovered. 

Calanthe, Arria {her Mother'), 

Calanthe. There's no power 
Shall stay me back ! I must behold him die, 
Then follow him ! 

Arria. My child ! 

Cal. I cannot hear thee ! 
The shrieking of the Furies drowns thy cries ! 

Arr. This is no place for thee — no place, Calanthe, 
For such a one as thou ! 



B A KIM. 405 

Cal. No other place 
Is fit for such a wretch ! I am his wife, 
Betrothed, though not married. There's no place 
For me but at his side : in life or death 
There is no other. 

There is the scaffold with the block on it ! 
There is the — Oh, good gods ! 

Arr. Come back, my child ! 
Good Damocles, give me your aid to bear 
This wretched woman hence. 

Cal. Oh, mother, mother, 
I'll not be grudged that horrible delight ! 
I'll take one long and maddening look of him, 
Whom in the morn I thought I should have waited, 
Blushing within the chamber of a bride, 
And with a heart all full of love and fear. 
Now I await him in a different place, 
And with a cheek that ne'er shall blush again ; 
Whose marble may be spotted o'er with blood, 
But not with modesty ; Love yet remains, 
But Fear, its old companion, 's fled away, 
And made room for Despair ! 

Enter Dionysius, in disguise. 

Ha ! are you come ? 

'Twas you that told me so, 

And froze the running currents in my bosom, 

To one deep cake of ice ! You said too well 

That Damon would not come. The selfish traitor ! 

The traitor Damon ! 

Dion. Hark thee, Calanthe ! 
It was an idle tale I told to thee ! 



406 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

CaL Ha! 

Dion. A mere coinage, an invention. 

CaL I do not ask thee why that tale was framed — 
Framed in thy cold, deliberate cruelty — 
But only this — one question : — May he yet — 
May Damon yet return ? 

Dion. He may — he is 
As free to come, or stay, as are the winds. 

CaL And Dionysius withholds him not ? 

Dion. He does not. 

CaL Whatsoe'er thou art, the gods, 
For that one word, be unto thee and thine 
Guardians forever ! Oh, that ray of hope 
That breaks upon my soul, is worth a flood 
Of the sweet daylight of Elysium ! 
Damon may yet return ! But, powers of Heaven ! 
Death is prepared already ! What is the time ? 

Dion. Thou mayst perceive by yonder dial-plate 
Against the temple, six poor minutes only 
Are left for his return. 

Cal. And yet he comes not ! 
Oh, but that temple, where the shade of time 
Moves unrelentingly, is dedicate 
To the great Goddess of Fidelity — 
She will not, in the face of her high fane, 
Let such a profanation hurl forever 
The altars of her worship to the ground ; 
For who will offer incense to her name 
If Damon's false to Pythias ? [Sound of chains and bolts 

behind.'] Ha ! they unbar 
The ponderous gates ! There is a clank of chains ! 
They are leading him to death ! 



BANIM. 407 

Damocles. Bring forth the prisoner ! 
The gates of the prison are Jlung open, and Pythias is 
discovered. He advances to the scaffold. 

Cal. Pythias ! 

Pyth. Calanthe here ! [She rushes into his arms.] 
My poor, fond girl ! 
Thou art the first to meet me at the block, 
Thou'lt be the last to leave me at the grave ! 
How strangely things go on in this bad world — 
This was my wedding-day; but for the bride, 
I did not think of such a one as Death ! 
I deemed I should have gone to sleep to-night, 
This very night — not on the earth's cold lap, — 
But, with as soft a bosom for my pillow, 
And with as true and fond a heart-throb in it 
To lull me to my slumber, as e'er yet 
Couched the repose of love. It was, indeed, 
A blissful sleep to wish for ! 

Cal. Oh, my Pythias, 
He yet may come ! 

Pyth. Calanthe, no ! Remember, 
That Dionysius hath prevented it. 

Cal. That was an idle tale of this old man, 
And he may yet return ! 

Pyth. May yet return ! 
Speak ! — how is this ? return ! — O life, how strong 
Thy love is in the hearts of dying men ! 

[To Dionysius.] Thou'rt he didst say the tyrant 
would prevent 
His coming back to Syracuse ? 

Dion. I wronged him. 

Pyth. Ha ! were it possible ! — may he yet come ? 
18* 



408 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

CaL Into the sinews of the horse that bears him, 
Put swiftness, gods ! — let him outrace and shame 
The galloping of clouds upon the storm ! 
Blow breezes with him ; lend every feeble aid 
Unto his motion ! — and thou, thrice solid earth, 
Forget thy immutable fixedness — become 
Under his feet like flowing water, and 
Hither flow with him ! 

Pytk. I have taken in 
All the horizon's vast circumference 
That, in the glory of the setting sun, 
Opens its wide expanse, yet do I see 
No signal of his coming ! Nay, 'tis likely — 
Oh, no — he could not ! It is impossible ! 

CaL I say, he is false ! he is a murderer ! 
He will not come ! the traitor doth prefer 
Life, ignominious, dastard life ! Thou minister 
Of light, and measurer of eternity, 
In this great purpose, stay thy going down, 
Great sun, behind the confines of the world ! 
On yonder purple mountains make thy stand ! 
For while thine eye is opened on mankind, 
Hope will abide within thy blessed beams — 
They dare not do the murder in thy presence ! 
Alas! all heedless of my frantic cry, 
He plunges down the precipice of Heaven ! 
Pythias — O Pythias ! 

Pytk. I could have borne to die, 
Unmoved, by Dionysius — but to be torn 
Green from existence by the friend I loved, — 
Thus from the blossoming and beauteous tree 
Rent by the treachery of him I trusted ! 



BANIM. 409 

No ! no ! I wrong thee, Damon, by that half thought — 
Shame on the foul suspicion ! he hath a wife 
And child, who cannot live on earth without him, 
And Heaven has flung some obstacle in his way 
To keep him back, and lets me die, who am 
Less worthy, and the fitter. 
Proc. Pythias, advance ! 

CaL No, no ! why should he yet ? It is not yet — 
By all the gods, there are two minutes only ! 

Proc, Take a last farewell of your mistress, Sir, 
And look your last upon the setting sun— 
And do both quickly, for your hour comes on ! 

Pyth. Come here, Calanthe ! closer to me yet ! 
Ah ! what a cold transition it will be [Embraces her. 

From this warm touch, all full of life and beauty, 
Unto the clammy mould of the deep grave ! 
I pr'ythee, my Calanthe, when I am gone, 
If thou shouldst e'er behold my hapless friend, 
Do not upbraid him ! This, my lovely one, 
Is my last wish. — 'Remember it ! 

CaL [ Who, during this speech, has been looking wildly 
towards the side of the stage.] Hush ! hush ! 
Stand back there ! 

Pyth. Take her, you eternal gods, 
Out of my arms into your own ! Befriend her ! 
And let her life glide on in gentleness, 
For she is gentle, and doth merit it. 
CaL I think I see it — 
Proc. Lead her from the scaffold ! 
Pyth. Arria, receive her ! — yet one kiss — farewell. 
Thrice — thrice farewell ! — I am ready, Sir. 
Cal. Forbear ! 



4-10 G OLDEN LEAVES. 

There is a minute left : look there ! look there ! 

But 'tis so far off, and the evening shades 

Thicken so fast, there are no other eyes 

But mine can catch it — Yet, 'tis there ! I see it — 

A shape as yet so vague and questionable, 

'Tis nothing, just about to "change and take 

The faintest form of something ! 

Pyth. Sweetest love ! 

Dam. Your duty, officer. [Officer approaches her 

Cal. I will not quit him 
Until ye prove I see it not ! — no force 
Till then shall separate us. 

Dam. Tear them asunder ! 
Arria, conduct your daughter to her .home. 

Cal. Oh, send me not away ! Pythias, thine arms — 
Stretch out thine arms, and keep me ! — See, it comes ! 
Barbarians, murderers ! oh, yet a moment — 
Yet but one pulse — one heave of breath ! O Heavens ! 
[Swoons, and is carried away by Arria and Officers. 

Pyth. [To the Executioner .] There is no pang in thy 
deep wedge of steel 
After that parting. Nay, Sir, you may spare 
Yourself the pains to fit me for the block. — 
Damon, I do forgive thee ! — I but ask 
Some tears unto my ashes. [the scaffold. 

[A distant shout is heard. Pythias leaps up on 
By the gods, 

A horse and horseman ! Far upon the hill 
They wave their hats, and he returns it — yet 
I know him not : his horse is at the stretch ! [A shout. 

Why should they shout as he comes on ? It is — 
No, that was too unlike — but there, now — there ! 



BANIM. 411 

O life, I scarcely dare to wish for thee ; 

And yet — that jutting rock has hid him from me — 

No, let it not be Damon ! he has a wife 

And child ! — Gods, keep him back ! [Shouts, 

Damon. [Without.] Where is he ? 
Damon rushes in, and stands for a moment, looking round. 
Hal- 
He is alive — untouched ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! 

[Falls, with an hysterical laugh, upon the stage. — 
Three loud shouts zuithout. 

Pyth. The gods do know I could have died for him ; 
And yet I dared to doubt ! — I dared to breathe 
The half-uttered blasphemy ! [Damon is raised up. 

He faints ! — How thick 

This wreath of burning moisture on his brow ! 
His face is black with toil, his swelling bulk 
Heaves with swift pantings. Damon, my dear friend ! 

Dam. Where am I ? Have I fallen from my horse, 
That I am stunned, and on my head I feel 
A weight of thickening blood ! What has befallen me ? 
The horrible confusion of a dream 
Is yet upon my sight. — For mercy's sake, 
Stay me not back ! he is about to die ! — 
Pythias, my friend ! — Unloose me, villains, or 
You'll find the might of madness in mine arm I 
[Sees Pythias.] Speak to me, let me hear thy voice ! 

Pyth. My friend ! 

Dam. It pierced my brain, and rushed into my heart ! 
There's lightning in it ! — That's the scaffold — there 
The block — the axe — the executioner ! 
And here he lives ! — I have him in my soul ! 
[Embraces Pythias.] Ha ! ha ! ha ! 



412 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Pytk. Damon ! 

Dam. Ha ! ha ! 
I can but laugh ! — I cannot speak to thee ! 
I can but play the maniac, and laugh. 
Thy hand ! — oh, let me grasp thy manly hand ! 
It is an honest one, and so is mine ! 
They are fit to clasp each other. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Pytk. Would that my death could have preserved thee ! 

Dam. Pythias, 
Even in the very crisis to have come, — 
To have hit the very forehead of old Time ! 
By Heavens ! had I arrived an hour before, 
I should not feel this agony of joy — 
This triumph over Dionysius ! 

Ha ! ha ! — But didst thou doubt me ? Come, thou didst — 
Own it, and Pll forgive thee. 

Pytk. For a moment. 

Dam. O that false slave ! — Pythias, he slew my horse, 
In the base thought to save me ! I would have killed him, 
And to a precipice was dragging him, 
When, from the very brink of the abyss, 
I did behold a traveller afar, 
Bestriding a good steed. I rushed upon him, 
Choking with desperation, and yet loud 
In shrieking anguish, I commanded him 
Down from his saddle : he denied me — but 
Would I then be denied ? As hungry tigers 
Clutch their poor prey, I sprang upon his throat : 
Thus, thus I had him, Pythias. " Come, your horse, 
Your horse, your horse !" I cried. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Dion. [Advancing and speaking in a loud tone.] 
Damon! 






BAN1M. 413 

Dam. [Jumping on the scaffold.'] I am here upon the 
scaffold ! look at me : 
I am standing on my throne — as proud a one 
As yon illumined mountain, where the Sun 
Makes his last stand ; let him look on me too ; 
He never did behold a spectacle 

More full of natural glory. Death is — [Shouts.] Ha! 
All Syracuse starts up upon her hills, [Shouts. 

And lifts her hundred thousand hands. [Shouts.] Sheshouts — 
Hark, how she shouts ! [Shouts.] O Dionysius ! 
When wert thou in thy life hailed with a peal 
Of hearts and hands like that one ? Shout again ! [Shouts. 
Again ! [Shouts.] until the mountains echo you, 
And the great sea joins in that mighty voice, 
And old Enceladus, the Son of Earth, 
Stirs in his mighty caverns. [Shouts.] Tell me, slaves, 
Where is your tyrant ? Let me see him now ; 
Why stands he hence aloof? Where is your master? 
What is become of Dionysius ? 
I would behold, and laugh at him ! 

Dion. Behold me ! [Dionysius advances between Da- 
[mon and Pythias, and throws off his disguise. 

Dam. & Pyth. How ? 

Dion. Stay your admiration for a while, 
Till I have spoken my commandment here. 
Go, Damocles, and bid a herald cry 
Wide through the city, from the eastern gate 
Unto the most remote extremity, 
That Dionysius, tyrant as he is, 
Gives back his life to Damon. [Exit Damocles. 

Pyth. How, Dionysius ? 
Speak that again ! 



4-14 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Dion. I pardon him. 
Pyth. O gods ! 
You give his life to Damon ? 
Dion. Life and freedom ! 

[Shouts and drums. — Damon staggers from the 
scaffold into the arms of Pythias. 



(S&eorge til. f crodl. 

LOVE'S SACRIFICE ; OR, THE RIVAL MERCHANTS. 

Matthew Elmore, a wealthy Merchant, is supposed to have murdered 
the Count Du Barre, ivho had basely wronged him. Elmore 
adopts the Children of the supposed murdered Man, and bctroths his 
Daughter Margaret to Eugene Du Barre. Paul Lafont, a 
rival Merchant and Enemy of Elmore, discovers the presumed Guilt 
of the latter, and threatens to denounce the supposed Murderer, unless 
Elmore ivill consent to his Marriage ivith Margaret. To save her 
Father, she agrees to the " Sacrifice" 

Scene — A room in Elmore's House. 

Elmore discovered, seated. 

Elm. Discovered — ruined — lost ! Am I the same 
Who stood an hour ago this house's master ! — 
The proud, the wealthy, courted, honoured Elmore ? 
Oh, lie — oh, gilded lie — now stripped so bare ! [Starts up. 
What madness tempted my return to France? 
It was that burning fever of the heart, 
That elsewhere found no rest : — it was the cries, 
Haunting my ear, of those whom I had orphaned, 
Calling me here to fill their father's place ! 



LOVELL. 415 

And now, in stretching forth my hand to them, 

I have outstretched and lost myself. Oh, thus 

That over-ruling Justice, which directs 

The issues of our lives, stands by the culprit, 

And, when his blinding guilt has sealed his eyes, 

Guides him, unknowing, to the very spot 

Fixed for his execution. [Starts.] Hark ! a footstep — 

My child's ! How shall I meet her ? 

Enter Margaret, slowly. 
Margaret ! 

Mar. [Faintly, and keeping at a distance.] Sir — 

Elm. [Hesitates, and then advances a step.] Margaret — 

Alar. [Shrinking back, mutters.] A murderer — a sen- 
tenced murderer ! 
Those hands, which have so often fondled mine — 
Those ringers, which have played among my hair, 
And smoothed it on my brow so many a time — 
Blood has been on them — human blood ! 

Elm. [Faltering.] My child — 
It is not thus we have been used to meet — 

Mar. That's still his voice — the same, whose gentle tone 
So often lulled my pettish infancy — 
Which, till an hour ago, could never sound, 
But it seemed music — now how harsh it jars ! 

Elm. [Extending his hand.] Margaret ! — do you shrink 
from me, my child ? 

[She slowly and fearfully advances towards him, and, 
with an evident struggle, places her hand in his. 
She shudders at my touch ! That's past belief — 
I could bear all but that. Girl, they have told thee 

Mar. All. 



4-i6 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Elm. No — not all ! They may have told, perhaps, 
How one I hated wedded one I loved, 
But none could ever tell thee how I loved her — 
The wild, the maddening passion— — let it pass ! 
Perhaps she answered to it : — he, at least, 
Who won her, thought so — till his jealous doubts 
Reproached her innocence. She bore him children — 
But, swayed by the gross frenzy of his thought, 
He loathed the sight of them, and called them bastards ! 
Oh, then her outraged honour, no less proud 
Than it was pure, broke her young heart ! — She died ! 

Mar. Oh, happy ! — Yet go on. 

Elm. It was the night 
Fixed for her burial — and I sat alone : 
I was not mad, for I had consciousness, 
And knew my desolation. The deep toll 
Of the loud convent bell, with measured stroke, 
Fell on my ear, till its repeated sound 
Gnawed, like a living thing, upon my brain. 
And then there came the flat and heavy tread 
Of those who bore her — they must pass my house ; 
Convulsed, I started up and fled !— Close by, 
Sullen and black — tempting to thoughts as dark — 
The plashing river lay. I neared its bank — 

Perhaps with sinful purpose — ay, thou tremblest 

But sinful thoughts, indulged, bring sinful acts 

Before unthought of. In my very path. 

In that wild hour, he crossed me — he himself, 

Who had consigned her to her early tomb. 

We spoke — but what, I know not ; yet I know 

I taunted — spurned him — charged him with her blood. 

He challenged me, and drew. I was unarmed, 



LOVELL. 417 

But with one hand I struck aside his sword, 

And with the other felled him to the ground, 

And so passed on. — Burning with rage, he followed — 

I heard his voice and his quick nearing tread ; 

I turned, and saw the gleaming of his sword 

Close at my throat. — Desperate, I sprang upon him, 

Grappled, and wrenched the weapon from his grasp, 

And drove it in his heart ! Why, girl, dost stand 

Looking upon me with that stony gaze ? 

Dost thou condemn me still ? — Speak ! — Tell me, child, 

Could it have happened otherwise ? 

Mar. [Faintly.] Go on. 

Elm. Oh that it had ! — for when the blow was struck, 
When his loud death-shriek rang upon my brain, 
And his pierced corpse fell heavy at my feet, 
Oh, then indeed all changed ! — The murky air 
Grew thick and choking — lightnings flashed before me — 
A thousand thunders bellowed in my ear, 
And every one cried, " Murderer !" — I fled, 
And knew not whither, till I found myself 
In a strange land, with strangers gathered round me : 
And there was one who watched and pitied me, 
Pouring the balm of woman's tenderness 
Upon my bruised spirit, till I grew 
To love her — not as I had loved before, 
But with the quiet of a calm affection 
That leaned upon her soothing gentleness, 
As on a place of rest from my 'scaped shipwreck : 
She was thy mother, child 

Mar. [Sighing.] Go on, go on. 

Elm. But blood was spilt, and the avenger's wing 
Hovered above my house. It was on her 



4-18 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

That the blow fell : she drooped, and she, too, died : 

But still her memory remained in thee. 

Oh, how I prayed to have thee spared to me ! 

How watched, how toiled for thee ! My prayer was heard, 

Granted ! — for what — for what ? My child was spared, 

That I might see her, now, shrink from my sight, 

And shudder at my touch ! 

Mar. [Flinging her arms round his neck, and bursting 
into tears.'] Father ! — my Father ! 
[Then breaking away from him, continues hurriedly. 
We'll speak no more of this — we will forget it — 
All shall be well — fear not — all shall be well — 
And yet one question first. — Is there no hope 
The sentence may be yet reversed ? 

Elm. None — none — 
I have no witnesses. 

Mar. And one word more — 
It was, indeed, the father of Eugene — 
He — he — you — 

Elm. He I slew ? Alas, poor child ! 
It was. 

Mar. Enough — we'll talk of it no more ! 
'Tis past : we'll never name Eugene again — 
All shall be well 

Elm. [Suddenly.] Margaret, I know thy thought ! 
But sooner shall they tear me limb from limb — 

Mar. Hush ! hush ! You shall be safe. 

Elm. Never, child, never, 
By such a sacrifice ! 

Mar. A sacrifice ! 
Sir, you have yet to learn a woman's heart ! 
She looks, perhaps, a weak, vain, fluttering thing ; 



LOVELL. 419 

But call on her affections, she is strong, 
Constant, invincible, immovable ! 
And sacrifice — a word without a meaning ! 
See — I can smile already ! 

Enter Paul Lafont. 

Laf. My sweet friends, 
I fear I interrupt you ? 

Mar. No, Sir, no — 
We waited for you. This agreement, Sir, 
Of which we spoke — I am prepared. 

Elm. Forbear ! 
Child, I forbid it ! 

Laf. Dearest Elmore, think ! 
Your goods are confiscated by the law — 
Your life is forfeit. — Where shall Margaret shelter 
When these are taken ? 

Mar. I have said, I'm ready. 

Laf. Then, sweetest, give me now your hand, in pledge 
Of a more formal contract soon to follow. 
But, mark ! this act shall bear in it a vow 
As strong as any that the altar hears, 

And as irrevocable. Thus I take it. [Margaret slowly 
and tremblingly extends her hand, but, as she is 
about placing it in Lafont's, overcome by emotion, 
faints. 

Elm. [Catching her.] Villain! what hast thou done? — 
Thou hast killed my child ! 
Away ! or I shall have another murder 
Upon my soul ! There's something desperate in me ! 
My blighted blossom ! 'tis thy father's arms 
That circle thee. Look up ! — She cannot live 



4-20 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

While thou art near her. Get thee gone, I say, 
Thou tempting, torturing fiend ! 

Laf. Elmore, bethink you ! 

Elm. [Bending over ker.~\ Margaret — my pure one ! 

Laf. I wait my answer 

Elm. Devil — my defiance ! 
Go — do thy worst ! 

Laf. Since you desire it — well ! 
Without there ! Guard the doors ! — If any pass, 
Your lives shall answer for it to the law ! [Exit. Elmore 

[embraces Margaret.* 

Suspicion. 

Oh, my child ! 

As thou wouldst prize thy young heart's dearest peace, 

Guard from thy breast that moral pestilence ! 

Suspicion, like the fabled upas, blights 

All healthy life, and makes a desert round it. 

Nothing so fair, nothing so pure can live, 

But by suspicion may be marred and blasted; 

No path so straight, but to Suspicion's eye 

Looks tortuous and bent from its true end : 

Away with it ! — We know it not in youth, 

When we come freshest from the hand of Heaven. 

It is an earth -engendered monster, springing 

From the rank slime of our polluted years. 

Oh, better be, in trust o'er-confident, 

A thousand times deceived, than wrongly once 

Wound with ungenerous doubt the breast of Truth ! 

* Margaret is preserved from completing her "sacrifice." Du 
Barre was only wounded by Elmore j he reappears at the moment 
when Margaret is about to sign the contract with Lafont, and, with 
the consent of Du Barre, she is united to Eugene. 



WHITE. 421 

tin). 3amc0 tUI)itc. 

THE KING OF THE COMMONS. 

James V. of Scotland, called " The King of the Commons" learns that 
several of the Nobles of his Court traitorously receive Bribes from 
England, to subvert his Government. The Lord Seton, the King* s 
most trusted Friend, is included in the list of Traitors. James sum- 
mons Seton to his presence, to test the truth of the Accusation. 

Scene — Holyrood. The King's Closet. — Enter an At- 
tendant, conducting Bishop. 

Atten. His grace will not be long ere he returns. 
Please you, be seated. 

Bishop. Guard well the prisoner. [Exit Attendant.] 
On the eve of war 
To leave his foes un watched — his very camp 
A scene of treason; but I've laid my hand 
On every loop in the net. 'Tis like the king — 
Some playful hiding in a burgher suit — 
I thought he had been sobered. That's his step. 

Enter James. 

James. Ha ! my good lord — but we're unfitly geared 
For shrift and penance ; we have rid for the life 
Up hill — down dale. But you look big with care. 
Out with it ; it will burst you. 

Bishop. It befits 
Neither my years nor my great calling, Sir, 
Nor the meek spirit that should harbour here, 
To mix in the fierce struggles in a court. 

James. I know you well. Excuse me, good my lord, 
If, with the flippant quickness of the tongue, 



422 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

I hide the respect and deep reverence, 
Which my heart bears to the right reverend virtues 
Of meekness, truth, and most sweet gentleness, t 
I've ever found in you. 

Bishop. Ah, Sir ! I'm old— 
It may be that my time is nearly done — 
But I would fain, even to the end of my life, 
Bear you true service ; for I've marked in you 
Ever, from boyish days, a loving heart — 
Loving, though fiery ; and most merciful — 
Too merciful ! 

James. Nay ; not so, my good lord. 
Ill fares it with kings' swords when the sharp blade 
Shines oftener in the subject's dazzled eyes, 
Than the pearl-studded heft and jewelled sheath. 

Bishop. There may be times when the steel blade is all 
That gives true value to the jewelled sheath. 

James. How mean you ? You were my preceptor, Sir — 
Most kind — most wise : but you have told me often 
I lacked the bridle, not the spur. 

Bishop. The bridle, 
In your wild course of dalliance and deray ; 
The spur, in action fitting for a king. 

James. Not so — by Heaven ! not so Show me the deed 
You'd have me do that's fitting for a king, 
And, though it tore the softest string i' my heart, 
I'll do it. 

Bishop. Prepare you, then ! 

James. What is't, I say ? 
You think I have no higher, nobler thoughts, 
Than suit a pageant king on silken throne ? 
My lord, you know me not. 



WHITE. 423 

Bishop. What would you do 
If treachery 

James. Pah ! you know of treachery, too. 
Fear not, my lord — I'm glad 'twas only that ! 
Whew ! — my mind's easy now. Why, my good lord, 
I thought 't had been some terribler thing than that. 

Bishop. Than what, my liege ? 

James. You'll see — you'll see; fear not. 
I tell you, a king's eye can see as clear 
As a good bishop's. Ere three hours are fled, 
There will be proof. Come to our court at nine ; 
You'll see some action then that fits a king ; 
And, as you go, send me Lord Seton. 

Bishop. Seton ! 
No ; save in keeping of the guard. 

James. My lord, 
Say that again : perhaps I heard not right. 
I told you to send Seton — my friend Seton — 
Lord Seton — and you answered something. What ? 

Bishop. That he's the traitor I would warn you of. 

James, Seton a traitor ? — Seton, that I've loved 
Since we were boys ! — Ho ! Seton ! — Rest you, Sir ; 
You shall avouch this thing. — Seton ! ho ! Seton ! 

Bishop. My liege, I've proofs. 

James. What say you ? — proofs ? 

Bishop. Ay, proofs, 
Clearer than sunlight. 

Enter Attendant. 

James. [With dignity.] Take our greeting, Sir, 
To the Lord Seton — we would see him here. 

I Exit Attendant 
«9 



424 G OLDEN LEAVES. 

Proofs ? and of Seton's guilt ? Can it be so ? 
He was my friend — from five years old — so high ; 
We'd the same masters, played at the same games — 
Coits — golf. Fool ! fool ! to think that any thing 
Can bind a heart. I thought his heart was mine, 
His love — his life ; — and "to desert me now ! 
Viper ! He shall not live to laugh at me — 
At the poor king that trusted. Viper — dog ! — 
My lord, this thing, you say, is full of proof? 

Bishop. Ay, Sir. Be firm. 

James. Firm ! There's no tyrant king 
That flung men's hearts to feed the beasts i' the circus ; 
That tore men's limbs with horses for their sport ; 
That sent men to the tigers, and looked on 
To see them quivering in the monster's claws, 
Was half so firm — so pitiless ! 

Enter Seton. 
You're here ! 

Seton. Welcome, kind liege, to Holyrood again ! 

James. Back — back — keep off me ! We're your king, 
Lord Seton ! 
We will be just — we were in anger late. 
We're calm. — Though it should burst my heart in twain, 
I will be calm. [Aside.~\ 

Seton. My liege, what means this change ? 
I am not used to hear so harsh a voice 
From my kind master — from my friend ! 

James. Not that ! 
By Heaven, we're friend to not a man on earth ! 
No — never more ! 

Seton. You are unjust to me. 
You wrong me — oh, you wrong me, Sir ! 



WHITE. 425 

James. [dside.~\ O Heaven ! 
That I should hear a traitor borrow thus 
John Seton's voice, and look through Seton's eyes ! — 
Now, then, my lord ; what say you of this man ? 

Bishop. That he deceives you. 

Seton. I ? you false-tongued but, 

Forgive me my rough speech ; you wear a garb 
That checks my tongue. 

James. In what does he deceive ? 

Bishop. He and Lord Hume 

James, What ! he, too ? Where's Lord Hume ? 

Bishop. I blame not him, rny liege. 

James. No ? Is he true ? 
Send me Lord Hume : Pd see at least one man 
That keeps his faith. 

Seton. My liege, I know not yet 
What charge the good Lord Bishop brings against me : 
But if 'tis breach of faith, of love to you, 
I will not say he lies — but it is false. 

James. Say on — say on ; be sure your proof is strong ; 
For this is such an hour, I would not live it 
For all the wealth of earth. Quick ! Have it o'er ! 

Bishop. You bear command, Lord Seton, of the 
host ? 

James. He does. 

Bishop. And yet you entertain advice 
With English Dacre. Nay, deny it not ; 
I've seen the messenger in close discourse 
At night, within your tent. I know his errand, 
For I have trusty watchers in the camp. 

James. Do you deny this ? 

Seton. I cannot deny 



426 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

James. Villain ! you can't deny ! O shame — O shame ! 
Where will you hide you ? But go on — we're calm. 

Bishop. His errand was to offer you great sums 
Of English gold. 

James. Was this his errand ? 

Seton. Yes. 

James. And your base coward sword sprang not at 
once 
Forth from the sheath ? You did not slay the man ? 

Seton. No ! 

Bishop. And he sent a message back to Dacre, 
And gave the envoy passage, and safe-conduct. 

James. Is all this true ? O Seton, say the word, 
One little word — tell me it is not true ! 

Seton. My liege, 'tis true. 

James. Then, by the name we bear, 
You die — a traitor's death ! — Sirrah, the guard ! 
I will not look again to where he stands. 

Enter Guard ; they stand by Seton. 

Let him be taken hence, and let the axe 

Rid me of Seton ! is it so in truth, 

That you've deceived me — joined my enemies ? 
You — you — my friend — my playmate ! — is it so ? 
Sir, will you tell me wherein I have failed 
In friendship to the man that was my friend ? 
I thought I loved you — that in all my heart 
Dwelt not a thought that wronged you. 

Seton. You have heard 
What my accuser says, and you condemn me : 
I say no word to save a forfeit life — 
A life is not worth having, when 't has lost 



WHITE. 427 

All that gave value to it — my sovereign's trust ! 

James. \To the Bishop.] You see this man, Sir — he's 
the self-same age 
That I am. We were children both together — 
We grew — we read in the same book — my lord, 
You must remember that ? — how we were never 
Separate from each other : well, this man 
Lived with me, year by year; he counselled me, 
Cheered me, sustained me ; he was as myself — 
The very throne that is to other kings 
A desolate island rising in the sea — 
A pinnacle of power, in solitude, 
Grew to a seat of pleasance in his trust. 
The sea, that chafed all round it with its waves, 
This man bridged over with his love, and made it 
A highway for our subjects' happiness ; 
And now, for a few pieces of red gold , 
He leaves me ! Oh, he might have coined my life 
Into base ingots — stripped me of it all — 
If he had left me faith in one true heart, 
And I should ne'er have grudged him the exchange. — 
Go, now. We speak your doom — you die the death ! 
God pardon you ! I dare not pardon you — 
Farewell ! 

Seton. I ask no pardon, Sir, from you. 
May you find pardon — ay, in your own heart, 
For what you do this day ! 

Bishop. Be firm, my liege. 

James. Away, away, old man ! — you do not know — 
You cannot know — what this thing costs me. Go ! 
I'm firm. 

Seton. Who is it that accuses me ? 



428 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

'Tis like your noble nature to be sudden ; 
I thought you just no less. 

James, Ha ! hear you that ? 
Bring on your proof. Though his own tongue confessed 

Enough to whet the dullest axe to a point 

Where is that envoy ? 

Bishop. He is here, my liege. 

James. Bring him. [Exit Bishop. 

Let the Lord Seton stay. 

Enter Bishop and English Messenger. 

How now ? 

You came with message from Lord Dacre's camp? 

Mes. From the Lord Dacre's self — so please you, Sir; 
But will Lord Seton's letter of safe-conduct 
Bear me in surety ? 

James. Have no fear, my friend : 
His letter of safe-conduct ! What contained 
Your message to Lord Seton ? 

Mes. A free offer 
Of twenty thousand marks. 

James. For what — for what ? 

Mes. To stay inactive, or lead off the force, 
When brought to face our army. 

James. Was it so ? 
To leave me fenceless ! And he answered you 
Kindly — he paused a little, just a little, 
Before he struck his king, his friend, to the earth ! 
Out with it all ! — He gave you a message back ? 
Is't so — is't so ? 

Mes. Yes, please your majesty. 

James. I knew it ! — a few phrases — a regret — 



WHITE. 429 

A fear — a hope ; but he agreed at last. 
Tell me the answer he sent back to Dacre. 

Bishop. [Shows a letter. ~\ Here is the very letter — I 
laid hold of it 
On the man's person. 

James. Read, read, good Lord Bishop ! 
Blink not a word of it — a syllable ; 
Deliver it as we were Dacre's self. 
Now, what says Seton, that degenerate Scot ? 

Bishop. [Reads.] This is my answer to Lord Dacrc's 
message : 
I trample with my heel on your foul bribe ; 
I send you scorn, and hatred, and defiance ! 

James. More, more ! 

Bishop. I cast my glove into your face* 
And summon you to meet me, foot to foot. 
When flies the Scottish banner on the Tweed, 
On Monday morn 

James. Go on ! 

Bishop. I call you slave. 
To think to wean me from my loyalty, 
My truth, my honour to my trusting king ! 

James. Ha ! was it so ? — Go forth, good messenger ; 
Bear you this chain of gold. [Hurries the Messenger out. 
My good Lord Bishop, 

What meant you ? — but no, no — you meant it well ; 
Go mind your priests, my lord ; meddle no more 
In things like this. Keep to your duties, Sir ; 
Bid not your priests be " firm" — tell them to be 
Gentle, forgiving, trustful, but not firm ; 
No more— no more. [Hurries the Bishop out. 

Guards, leave my friend Lord Seton. [Exeunt Guards. 



43° GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Now we're alone ! Come, Seton ! Seton, here, 

To my heart ! \They embrace^ Why said you nothing? 

Seton. For I knew 
Your justice' self would be the pleader for me. 

James. Ah, Seton, what a shock it gave my heart, 
To think that you had left me ! Pardon it ; 
It was because I trusted you the most, 
That the blow fell so heavy. I was wrong, 
And you'll forgive me ; all my life shall be 
A recompense for the vile thought that dwelt 
But for ten minutes, — not a minute more, — 
In my weak heart ; but tell me you'll forgive it. 

Seton. Forgive it, my good liege, — 

James. I know you will, 
For I will earn it of you with such trust 
As never king had in his friend before. 

Seton. Others, my liege, are false 

James. Ha ! that they are ! 
But fear not ; you and Hume are by my side. 
I'll balk the traitors yet. Oh, I'll be firm — 
Firm as the Bass, rugged as Ailsa crag. 

I shall know all ere long Call a court at nine — 

Fail not — and have our guard in double force ; 

The headsman ready : it may chance our work 

Be bloody, if we're firm. Fail not at nine ; 

And now farewell ! [Exeunt. 



JOHN HOWARD PAYNE. 431 

JJol)n Qoumvb JjJagne. 

BRUTUS; OR, THE FALL OF TARQJJIN.* 

Lucius Junius Brutus, Son of Marcus Junius, is brought up at the 
Court of the Tarqjjins, the Murderers of his Father ^iv here, under 
the assumed character of an Idiot, he bears the mockeries of the Court ; 
waiting a fitting time to throiv off his disguise and revenge his Fathers 
Murder, overthrow the Tarquins, and liberate his Country. The 
occasion presents itself -when Sextus Tarquin violates Lucretia, 
Wife of Collatinus, and, exulting in the deed, meets Brutus, and 
boasts of his achievement. 

Rome. — The Capitol. — Equestrian Statue of Tarquinius 
Superbus. — Night, — Thunder and Lightning. 

Enter Brutus. 

Brutus. [Alone.] Slumber forsakes me, and I court the 
horrors 
Which night and tempest swell on every side. 
Launch forth thy thunders, Capitolian Jove ! 
Put fire into the languid souls of men ; 
Let loose thy ministers of wrath amongst them, 
And crush the vile oppressor ! Strike him down, 
Ye lightnings ! Lay his trophies in the dust ! 

[Storm increases. 
Ha ! this is well ! Flash, ye blue-forked fires ! 
Loud-bursting thunders, roar ! and tremble, earth ! 

[A violent crash of thunder ; and the Statue of ^ Tar- 
quin, struck by a fash, is shattered to pieces. 
What ! fallen at last, proud idol ! struck to earth ! 



* This selection, and the whole of the succeeding ones, are col- 
lected from the Dramatic Poets of America. 
19* 



43 2 G OLDEN LEAVES. 

I thank you, gods — I thank you ! When you point 

Your shafts at human pride, it is not Chance, 

'Tis Wisdom levels the commissioned blow. 

But I — a thing of no account — a slave— 

I to your forked lightnings bare my bosom 

In vain — for what's a slave — a dastard slave ? 

A fool, a Brutus ? \_Storm increases.] Hark ! the storm 

rides on ! 
The scolding winds drive through the clattering rain, 
And loudly screams the haggard witch of night. 
Strange hopes possess my soul. My thoughts grow wild, 
Engender with the scene, and pant for action. 
With your leave, majesty, I'll sit beside you, 
And ruminate awhile. [Sits on a fragment of the Statue. 
O for a cause ! A cause, ye mighty gods ! — 
Soft, what stir is this ? 

Enter Valerius, followed by a Messenger. 

Val. What ! Collatinus sent for, didst thou say ? 

Mes. Ay, Collatinus, thou, and all her kinsmen ! 
To come upon the instant to Collatia ; 
She will take no denial. Time is precious, 
And I must hasten forth to bring her husband. [Exit. 

Bru. [Apart.] Ha ! Collatinus and Lucretia's kinsmen ! 
There's something, sure, in this. Valerius, too, — 
Well met. Now will I put him to the test. — 
Valerius — hoa ! 

Val. Who calls me ? 

Bru. Brutus. 

Val. Go, 
Get thee to bed ! [Valerius is departing. 

Bru. Valerius ! 



JOHN HOWARD PAYNE. 433 

VaL Peace, 
Thou foolish thing ! Why dost thou call so loud ? 

Bru. Because I will be heard ! The time may come 
When thou mayst want a fool. 

VaL Pr'ythee, begone ! 
I have no time to hear thy prattle now. 

Bru. By Hercules, but you must hear ! 

[Seizing his arm. 

VaL You'll anger me. 

Bru. Waste not your noble anger on a fool — 
'Twere a brave passion in a better cause. 

VaL Thy folly's cause enough. 

Bru. Rail not at folly ; 
There's but one wise, 
And him the gods have killed. 

VaL Killed? Whom? 

Bru. Behold! 
Oh, sight of pity ! — Majesty in ruins ! 
Down on your knees — down to your kingly idol ! 

VaL Let slaves and sycophants do that : not I. 

Bru. Wilt thou not kneel ? 

VaL Begone ! 
Valerius kneels not to the living Tarquin. 

Bru. Indeed ! — Belike you wish him laid as low ? 

VaL What if I do ? 

Bru. Jove tells thee what to do — 
Strike ! — Oh, the difference 'twixt Jove's wrath and thine ! 
He at the crowned tyrant aims his shaft : 
Thou, mighty man, wouldst frown a fool to silence, 
And spurn poor Brutus from thee. 

VaL What is this ? 
Let me look nearer at thee. Is thy mind, 



4-34 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

That long-lost jewel, found ? — and Lucius Junius, 
Dear to my heart, restored ? Or art thou Brutus, 
The scoff and jest of Rome, and this a fit 
Of intermittent reason ? 

Bru, I am Brutus ! 
Folly, be thou my goddess ! I am Brutus, 
If thou wilt use me so. — If not, farewell. 
Why dost thou pause ? Look on me ! I have limbs, 
Parts and proportions, shoulders strong to bear, 
And hands not slow to strike ! What more than Brutus 
Could Lucius Junius do ? 

Val. A cause like ours 
Asks both the strength of Brutus, and the wisdom 
Of Lucius Junius. 

Bru. No more — we're interrupted. 

VaL Farewell. Hereafter we'll discourse : 
And may the gods confirm the hope you've raised ! \£xit. 

Bru. \Alone.\ My soul expands ! my spirit swells w T ithin 
me, 
As if the glorious moment were at hand ! — 
Sure, this is Sextus ! why has he left the camp ? 
Alone — and muffled ! 



Enter Sextus, zvrapped in a mantle. 

Welcome, gentle prince ! 

Sex. Ha ! Brutus here ? — Unhoused amid the storm ? 

Bru. Whence com'st thou, prince ? from battle ? from 
the camp ? 

Sex. Not from the camp, good Brutus — from Collatia ; 
The camp of Venus — not of Mars, good Brutus. 

Bru. Ha! 

Sex, Why dost thou start ? — thy kinswoman, Lucretia — 



JOHN HOWARD PAYNE. 435 

Bru. [Eagerly.] Well, what of her ? speak! 

Sex, Ay, I will speak, 
And I'll speak that shall fill thee with more wonder 
Than all the lying oracle declared. 

Bru. Nay, prince, not so : you cannot do a deed 
To make me wonder. 

Sex. Indeed ! Dost think it ? 
Then let me tell thee, Biutus,— wild with passion 
For this famed matron, — though we met but once, — 
Last night I stole in secret from the camp, 
Where, in security, I left her husband. 
She was alone. I said, affairs of consequence 
Had brought me to Collatia. She received me 
As the king's son, and as her husband's friend 

Bru. [Apart.] Patience, O heart ! — a moment longer, 
patience ! 

Sex. When midnight came, I crept into her chamber. 

Bru. [Apart.] Inhuman monster ! 

Sex. Alarmed and frantic, 
She shrieked out, " Collatinus ! husband ! help !" 
A slave rushed in : I sprang upon the caitiff, 
And drove my dagger through his clamorous throat ; 
Then, turning to Lucretia, now half dead 
With terror, swore, by all the gods, at once, 
If she resisted, to the heart I'd stab her ; 
Yoke her fair body to the dying slave, 
And fix pollution to her name forever ! 

Bru. And — and — the matron ? 

Sex. Was mine ! 

Bru. [With a burst of frenzy.] The furies curse you, 
then ! lash you with snakes ! 
When forth you walk, may the red-flaming sun 



436 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Strike you with livid plagues ! 

Vipers, that die not slowly, gnaw your heart ! 

May earth be to you but one wilderness ! 

May you hate yourself — 

For death pray hourly, yet be in tortures 

Millions of years expiring ! 

Sex, Amazement ! What can mean this sudden frenzy r 

Bru. What ? Violation ! Do we dwell in dens, 
In caverned rocks, or amongst men in Rome ? 

\Thunder and lightning become very violent 
Hear the loud curse of Heaven ! 'Tis not for nothing 
The Thunderer keeps this coil above your head ! 

[Points to the fragments of the Statue. 
Look on that ruin ! See your father's statue 
Unhorsed and headless ! Tremble at the omen ! 

Sex, This is not madness. Ha ! my dagger lost ! — 
Wretch ! thou shalt not escape me. — Ho ! a guard ! 
The rack shall punish thee. A guard, I say ! [Exit, 

Bru. \Alone^\ The blow is struck ! the anxious messages 
To Collatinus and his friends, explained : 
And now, Rome's liberty or loss is certain. 
I'll hasten to Collatia — join my kinsmen — 
To the moon, folly ! Vengeance, I embrace thee ! [Exit, 

Lucretia, preferring death to shame, destroys herself. — Brutus throws 
off his assumed Madness, and urges the Friends of Collatinus to 
avenge the Wrongs of Lucretia, by dethroning the Tarquins. To 
excite the Populace to aid their endeavours, he causes the dead Body 
of Lucretia to be brought to the Forum, and there harangues the 
People. 

The Forum, — The Populace fill the Stage. — Brutus is 
discovered upon the Forum, The dead body of Lu- 
cretia is on a Bier beneath, Collatinus, Lucretius, 



JOHN HOWARD PAYNE. 437 

and the Female Attendants <?/~ Lucretia, stand around 

her Corpse. Valerius and others are seen. 

Bru. Thus, thus, my friends, fast as our breaking hearts 
Permitted utterance, we have told our story ; 
And now, to say one word of the imposture — 
The mask necessity has made me wear : 
When the ferocious malice of your king, — 
King do I call him ? — when the monster, Tarquin, 
Slew, as you most of you may well remember, 
My father Marcus and my elder brother, 
Envying at once their virtues and their wealth, 
How could I hope a shelter from his power, 
But in the false face I have worn so long ? 

1st Rom. Most wonderful ! 

zd. Rom. Silence ! he speaks again. 

Bru. Would you know why I summoned you together ? 
Ask ye what brings me here ? Behold this dagger, 
Clotted with gore ! Behold that frozen corse ! 
See where the lost Lucretia sleeps in death ! 
She was the mark and model of the time, 
The mould in which each female face was formed, 
The very shrine and sacristy of virtue ! 
Fairer than ever was a form created 
By youthful fancy when the blood strays wild, 
And never-resting thought is all on fire ! 
The worthiest of the worthy ! Not the nymph 
Who met old Numa in his hallowed walks, 
And whispered in his ear her strains divine, 
Can I conceive beyond her ; — the young choir 
Of vestal virgins bent to her. 'Tis wonderful, 
Amid the darnel, hemlock, and base weeds 
Which now spring rife from the luxurious compost 



4-38 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Spread o'er the realm, how this sweet lily rose, — 

How from the shade of those ill neighbouring plants 

Her father sheltered her, that not a leaf 

Was blighted, but, arrayed in purest grace, 

She bloomed unsullied beauty. Such perfections 

Might have called back the torpid breast of age 

To long-forgotten rapture ; such a mind 

Might have abashed the boldest libertine, 

And turned desire to reverential love 

And holiest affection. O my countrymen ! 

You all can witness when that she went forth : 

It was a holiday in Rome ; old age 

Forgot its crutch, labour its task, — all ran ; 

And mothers, turning to their daughters, cried, 

€€ There, there's Lucretia !" Now, look ye, where she lies ! 

That beauteous flower, that innocent sweet rose, 
Torn up by ruthless violence — gone ! gone ! gone ! 

All. Sextus shall die ! [Shouts. 

Bra. But then — the king — his father — 
\st Rom. What shall be done with him ? 
zd Rom. Speak, Brutus ! 
3d Rom. Tell us ! tell us ! 

Bra. Say, would you seek instruction ? would ye ask 
What ye should do ? Ask ye yon conscious walls, 
Which saw his poisoned brother, saw the incest 
Committed there, and they will cry, Revenge ! 
Ask yon deserted street, where Tullia drove 
O'er her dead father's corse, 'twill cry, Revenge ! 
Ask yonder senate-house, whose stones are purple 
With human blood, and it will cry, Revenge ! 
Go to the tomb where lies his murdered wife, 
And the poor queen, who loved him as her son, 



JOHN HOWARD PAYNE. 439 

There unappeased ghosts will shriek, Revenge ! 
The temples of the gods, the all-viewing Heavens, 
The gods themselves, shall justify the cry, 
And swell the general sound, Revenge ! revenge ! 

All. Revenge ! revenge ! 

Bru. And we will be revenged, my countrymen ! 
Brutus shall lead you on ; — Brutus, a name 
Which will, when you're revenged, be dearer to him 
Than all the noblest titles earth can boast. [Shouts, 

1st Rom. Live, Brutus ! 

2d. Rom. Valiant Brutus ! 

3d Rom. Down with Tarquin ! 

id Rom. We'll have no Tarquins ! 

1st Rom. We will have a Brutus ! 

^d Rom. Let's to the Capitol, and shout for Brutus ! 

Bru. I your king ? 
Brutus your king ? — No, fellow-citizens ! 
If mad ambition in this guilty frame 
Had strung one kingly fibre, — yea, but one — 
By all the gods, this dagger which I hold 
Should rip it out, though it entwined my heart. 

Val. Then I am with thee, noble, noble Brutus ! 
Brutus, the new-restored ! Brutus, by Sibyl, 
By Pythian prophetess foretold, shall lead us ! 

Bru. Now take the body up. Bear it before us 
To Tarquin's palace ; there we'll light our torches, 
And, in the blazing conflagration, rear 
A pile for these chaste relics, that shall send 
Her soul amongst the stars. On ! Brutus leads you ! 

\Exeunt, the Mob shouting. 

The Tarquins are expelled from Rome, and Brutus and Collatinus 
are appointed joint Consuls. Titus, Son to Brutus, ivho is married 



44° GOLDEN LEAVES. 

to Tarquinia, joins a Tarty headed by Sextus Tarquin, who seeks 
to regain the Throne. A Battle ensues ; Sextus is killed, and Titus 
and other Leaders taken Prisoners. The Senate condemn the Prisoners 
to Death, but leave Titus to receive u The Judgment of Brutus." 

Scene — Exterior of the. Temple of Mars. — Senators, Citi- 
zens, Collatinus, and Lucretius, discovered. A Tri- 
bunal, with a Consular Chair. 

Brutus enters, followed by Valerius ; he bows as he 
passes, and ascends the Tribunal. 

Bru. Romans, the blood which hath been shed this day 
Hath been shed wisely. Traitors, who conspire 
Against mature societies, may urge 
Their acts as bold and daring; and, though villains, 
Yet they are manly villains. But to stab 
The cradled innocent, as these have done, — 
To strike their country in the mother-pangs 
Of struggling child-birth, and direct the dagger 
To Freedom's infant throat — is a deed so black, 
That my foiled tongue refuses it a name. [A pause. 

There is one criminal still left for judgment — 
Let him approach. 

Titus is brought in by the Lictors, with their axes turned 
edgewise towards him. 

Pris — on — er— [The voice of Brutus falters, and is 
choked, and he exclaims, with violent emotion — 
Romans, forgive this agony of grief — 
My heart is bursting- — Nature must have way — 
I will perform all that a Roman should — 
I cannot feel less than a father ought ! 

[He becomes more calm. Gives a signal to the Lictors 



JOHN HOWARD PAYNE. 441 

to fall back, and advances from the Judgment- 
Seat to the front of the Stage, on a line with his Son, 
Well, Titus, speak — how is it with thee now ? 
Tell me, my son, art thou prepared to die ? 

Tit. Father, I call the powers of Heaven to witness 
Titus dares die, if so you have decreed. 
The gods will have it so ! 

Bru. They will, my Titus : 
Nor heaven nor earth can have it otherwise. 
It seemed as if thy fate were pre-ordained, 
To fix the reeling spirits of the people, 
And settle the loose liberty of Rome. 
'Tis fixed ; — oh, therefore, let not fancy cheat thee : 
So fixed thy death, that 'tis not in the power 
Of mortal man to save thee from the axe. 

Tit. The axe ! O Heaven ! — Then must I fall so basely ? 
What ! shall I perish like a common felon ? 

Bru. How else do traitors suffer ? — Nay, Titus, more — 
I must myself ascend yon sad tribunal — 
And there behold thee meet this shame of death, 
With all thy hopes and all thy youth upon thee, — 
See thy head taken by the common axe, — 
All, if the gods can hold me to my purpose, 
Without one groan, without one pitying tear. 

[Turns about, as if in agony. 

Tit. Die like a felon ? — Ha ! a common felon ! — 
But I deserve it all : — yet here I fail : — 
This ignominy quite unmans me ! 

O Brutus, Brutus ! must I call you father, [Kneels. 

Yet have no token of your tenderness, 
No sign of mercy ? — not even leave to fall 
As noble Romans fall, by my own sword ? 



442 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Father, why should you make my heart suspect 
That all your late compassion was dissembled ? 
How can I think that you did ever love me ? 

Bru. Think that I love thee by my present passion, 
By these unmanly tears, these earthquakes here, 
These sighs that strain the very strings of life, — 
Let these convince you that no other cause 
Could force a father thus to wrong his nature. 

Tit. Oh, hold, thou violated majesty ! [Rises. 

I now submit with calmness to my fate. 
Come forth, ye executioners of justice — 
Come, take my life, — and give it to my country ! 

Bru. Embrace thy wretched father. May the gods 
Arm thee with patience in this awful hour. 
The sovereign magistrate of injured Rome 
Condemns 

A crime thy father's bleeding heart forgives. 
Go — meet thy death with a more manly courage 
Than grief now suffers me to show in parting ; 
And, while she punishes, let Rome admire thee ! 
Farewell ! Eternally farewell ! — 

Tit. O Brutus ! O my father ! — 

Bru. What wouldst thou say, my son ? 

Tit. Wilt thou forgive me ? 
When I shall be no more, forget not my Tarquinia. 

Bru. Leave her to my care. 

Tit. Farewell forever ! 

Bru. Forever ! [Reascends the Tribunal. 

Lictors, attend ! — conduct your pris'ner forth ! 

Val. [Rapidly and anxiously.] Whither ? 

Bru. To death ! — [All start.] When you do reach the 
spot, 



J UN II WA E D PA YNE. 443 

My hand shall wave your signal for the act : 
Then let the trumpet's sound proclaim it done ! 

[Titus is conducted out by the Lie tors, — A dead march, 
which gradually dies away as it becomes more dis- 
tant. Brutus remains seated in a melancholy pos- 
ture on the Tribunal. 
Poor youth ! Thy pilgrimage is at an end ! 
A few sad steps have brought thee to the brink 
Of that tremendous precipice, whose depth 
No thought of man can fathom. Justice now 
Demands her victim ! A little moment, 
And I am childless. — One effort, and 'tis past ! — 

[He rises and waves his hand, convulsed with agita- 
tion, then drops in his seat, and shrouds his face 
with his toga. Three sounds of the trumpet are 
heard instantly. All the Characters assume attitudes 
of deep misery. — Brutus starts up wildly, descends 
to the front in extreme agitation, looks out on the 
side by which Titus departed, for an instant, then y 
with an hysterical burst, exclaims — 
Justice is satisfied, and Rome is free ! 

[Rkvtvs falls. — The Characters group around him. 



444 G OLDEN LEAVE S. 

Jfafyamel Jparker llHllia. 

BIANCA VISCONTI ; OR, THE HEART OVERTASKED. 
A TRAGEDY. 

Francesco Sforza, a Condoitiero of the Fourteenth Century, besieges 
Milan. To save his Dominions, Francesco Visconti, Duke of 
Milan, offers his Daughter, Bianca, in marriage to Sforza, ivho 
accepts the offer. 

The Apartment of Bianca. — Fiametta, her Waiting- 
Woman, embroidering, and Giulio, the Page, thrum- 
ming his Guitar. 

Page. I'd give my greyhound now— gold collar and 
silken leash — to know why the duke sent for my lady. 

Fiametta. Would you, Master Curiosity ? 

Page. Mistress Pert, I would — and thy acquaintance 
into the bargain. 

Fia. Better keep the goods you come honestly by. I 
would you knew as well how your mistress came by you. 

Page. I came to her from heaven — like her taste for my 
music. \Hums a tune. 

Fia. Did you ! do they make sacks in heaven ? 

Page. There's a waiting-woman's question for you ! 
Why sacks ? 

Fia. Because I think you came in one, like a present of 
a puppy-dog. 

Page. Silence, dull pin-woman ! here comes my mistress ! 

[Takes off his cap as Bianca enters. She walks across 
the stage, without heeding her Attendants. 

Bianca. To marry Sforza ! 
My dream come true ! my long, long cherished dream ! 
The star come out of heaven that I had worshipped ! 



WILLl-s. 445 

The paradise I built with soaring fancy, 
And rilled with rapture like a honey-bee, 
Dropped from the clouds at last ! Am I awake ? — 
Am I awake, dear Giulio ? 

Page. [Half advancing to her.] Noble mistress ! 

Bian. Thank God, they speak to me ! It is no dream ? 
It was this hand my father took to tell me — 
It was with these lips that I tried to speak — 
It was this heart that beat its giddy prison 
As if the exulting joy new-sprung within it 

Would out and fill the world ! 

Wed him to-morrow ! 
So suddenly a wife ! Will it seem modest, 
With but twelve hours of giddy preparation 
To come a bride to church ! Will he remember 
I was ten years ago affianced to him ? 
I have had time to think on't ! Oh, Pll tell him — 
When I dare speak, I'll tell him — how I've loved him ! 
And day and night dreamed of him, and through all 
The changing wars treasured the solemn troth 
Broke by my father ! If he listens kindly, 
I'll tell him how I fed my eyes upon him 
In Venice at his triumph — when he walked 
Like a descended god beside the Doge, 
Who thanked him for his victories, and the people, 
From every roof and balcony, by thousands 
Shouted out, " Sforza ! Live the gallant Sforza !" 
I was a child then — but I felt my heart 
Grow, in one hour, to woman ! 

Page. Would it please you 
To hear my new song, lady ? 

Bian. No, good Giulio ! 



446 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

My spirits are too troubled now for music. 

Get thee to bed ! Yet stay ! hast heard the news ? 

Page. Is't from the camp ? 

Bian. Ay — Sforza's taken prisoner ! 

Page. I'm vexed for that. 

Bian. Why vexed ? 

Page. In four years more 
I shall bear sword and lance. There'll be no Sforza 
To kill when I'm a man ! Who took him, lady ? 

Bian. A blind boy, scarcely bigger than yourself; 
And gave him, bound, to me ! In brie£ dear Giulio, 
Not to perplex those winking eyelids more, 
The wars are done, and Sforza weds to-morrow 
Your happy mistress ! 

Page. Sforza ! We shall have 
A bonfire then ! 

Bian. Ay — twenty ! 

Page. And you'll live 
Here in the palace, and have masks and gambols 
The year round, will you not ? 

Bian. My pretty minion, 
You know not yet what love is ! Love's a miser, 
That plucks his treasure from the prying world, 
And grudges e'en the eye of daylight on it ! 
Another's look is theft — another's touch 
Robs it of all its value. Love conceives 
No paradise but such as Eden was 
With two hearts beating in it. 

[Leaves the Page, and walks thoughtfully away. 
Oh, I'll build 
A home upon some green and flowery isle 
In the lone lakes, where we will use our empire 



WILLIS. 447 

Only to keep away the gazing world. 
The purple mountains and the glassy waters 
Shall make a hushed pavilion with the sky, 
And we two in the midst will live alone, 
Counting the hours by stars and waking birds, 
And jealous but of sleep ! — To bed, dear Giulio, 
And wake betimes. 

Page. Good-night, my dearest lady ! 

Bian. To bed, Fiametta ! I have busy thoughts, 
That needs will keep me waking. 

Fia. Good-night, lady ! 

Bian. Good-night, good-night ! The moon has fellowship 
For moods like mine. I'll forth upon the terrace, 
And watch her while my heart beats warm and fast. 

Sforza and Bianca are wedded, but doubts of his Wife's love are in- 
fused into Sforza's mind by Sarpellione, Ambassador at Milan from 
the King of Spain, and he treats her neglcctingly. 

Bianca's Chamber, at midnight. She sits on a conch, in a 
white undress, and Sforza beside her, in his armour. 

Bian. Dost think this ring a pretty one, my lord ? 

Sforza. Ay, 'tis a pretty ring ! I have one here 
Marancio gave me — Giacomo Marancio — 
The ring his wife sent — but you've heard the story ? 

Bian. I think I never heard it. 

Sfor. She's a woman 
The heart grows but to speak of. She was held 
A hostage by the Milanese (I pray you 
Pardon the mention), when, 'twixt them and me, 
Marancio held a pass. Her life was threatened 
If by his means I crossed the Adige. She — 
(Brave heart ! I warm to speak of her !) found means 



44 8 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

To send to him this ring ; wherein is writ — 

" He who loves most, loves honour best." You'll see it 

Here o' the inside. 

Bian. Did you see this lady ? 

Sfor. I hazarded a battle three days after, 
With perilous odds, only to bring her off — 
And would have sold my life for't. 

Bian. Did you see her ? 

Sfor. I gave her to Marancio, when I took 
The ring of him. 

Bian. My lord ! speak you so warmly 
Of any other woman ? 

Sfor. [Rising and taking his helmet.] Nay, I know not 
There are some qualities that women have 
Which are less worthy, but which warm us more 
Than speaking of their virtues. I remember 
The fair Giovanna in her pride at Naples. 
Gods ! what a light enveloped her ! She left 
Little to shine in history — but her beauty 
Was of that order that the universe 
Seemed governed by her motion. Men looked on her 
As if her next step would arrest the world ; 
And as the sea-bird seems to rule the wave 
He rides so buoyantly, all things around her — 
The glittering army, the spread gonfalon, 
The pomp, the music, the bright sun in heaven — 
Seemed glorious by her leave. 

Bian. [Rising and going to the window.'] There's 
emulation 
Of such sweet praise, my lord ! Did you not hear 
The faint note of a nightingale ? 

Sfor. More like 



WILLIS. 449 

A far-heard clarion, methought ! They change 
The sentinels, perchance. 'Tis time Rossano 
Awaits me on the ramparts. 

Bian. Not to-night! 
Go not abroad again to-night, my lord ! 

Sfor. For a brief hour, sweet ! The old soldier loves 
To gossip of the fields he's lost and won, 
And I, no less, to listen. Get to bed ! 
Fll follow you anon. [Exit Sforza. 

Bian. He does not love me ! 
I never dreamed of this ! To be his bride 
Was all the heaven I looked for ! Not to love me, 
When I have been ten years affianced to him ! — 
When I have lived for him — shut up my heart, 
With every pulse and hope, for his use only — 
Worshipped — O God ! idolatrously loved him ! . . . . 
Why has he sought to marry me ? Why still 
Renew the broken pledge my father made him ? 
Why, for ten years, with war and policy, 
Strive for my poor alliance ? . . . . 

He must love me, 
Or I shall break my heart ! I never had 
One other hope in life ! I never linked 
One thought, but to this chain ! I have no blood — 
No breath — no being — separate from Sforza ! 
Nothing has any other name ! The sun 
Shined like his smile — the lightning was his glory, 
The night his sleep, and the flushed moon watched o'er him ; 
Stars writ his name — his breath hung on the flowers — 
Music had no voice but to say, / love him, 
And life no future, but his love for me ! 
Whom does he love ? Marancio's wife ? He praised 



4.50 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Only her courage ! Queen Giovanna's beauty ? 

'Tis dust these many years ! There is no sign 

He loves another ; and report said ever 

His glory was his mistress. Can he love ? 

Shame on the doubt ! 'Twas written in the ring, 

" He who loves most, loves- honour best" — and Sforza 

Is made too like a god to lack a heart. 

And so, I breathe again ! To make him love me 

Is all my life now ! to pry through his nature, 

And find his heart out. That's wrapt in his glory! 

I'll feed his glory, then ! He praised Giovanna 

That she was royal and magnificent — 

Ay — that's well thought on, too ! How should an eye, 

Dazzled with war and warlike pomp, like Sforza's, 

Find pleasure in simplicity like mine ! \ Looks at her dress. 

I'm a duke's daughter, and I'll wear the look on't ! 

Unlock my jewels and my costly robes, 

And while I keep his show-struck eye upon me, 

Watch for a golden opportunity 

To build up his renown ! . . . . 

And so farewell 
The gentle world I've lived in ! Farewell all 
My visions of a world for two hearts only — 
Sforza's and mine ! If I outlive this change, 
So brief and yet so violent within me, 
I'll come back in my dreams, O childish world ! 
If not — a broken heart blots out remembrance. 

[Exit into her bridal Chamber, which is seen beyond 
on opening the door. 

Sarpellione informs Sforza that the Duke of Milan has another Child, 
a Son, ivho has been brought up in ignorance of his Birth, that Bi- 
anca may be created Duchess of Milan at her Fathers Death. 



WILLIS. 451 

Giulio, the Page, is this Son, although the fact is unknown to Sforza 
and Bianca. 

Sforza discovered sitting thoughtfully in Ins Apartment 
The Page curiously examining his Sword. 

Sforza. [Yawning.] This is dull work! 

Page. My lord, will't please you teach me 
A trick of fence ? 

Sfor. Ay — willingly ! Hast thou 
A weapon in that needle-case of thine ? 

Page. [Drawing.] A weapon ! If I had your legs to 
stand on, 
I'd give you all the odds 'twixt it and yours ! 
Look at that blade. [Bends it.] Damascus ! 

[Sforza smiles, and unbuckles his scabbard. 

By the gods, 
You shall not laugh at me ! I'll give you odds, — 
With any thing to stand on ! 

Sfor. Nay — I'll sit — 
And you shall touch me if you can ! Come on, 
And see I do not rap you o'er the cockscomb ! 

Page. Have at you fairly ! Mind ! for I'm in earnest ! 

[ They fence. 

Sfor. One — two — well thrust, by Jupiter ! Again ! 
One — two ! 

Page. [Makes a lunge.] Three! there you have it! 

Sfor. [Starting up.] Zounds ! 
This is no play. [handkerchief 

Page. What ! does the needle prick ? [ Wipes it with his 

Sfor. 'Tis a Damascus, if thou wilt ! I'll laugh 
No more at it or thee. Come here, thou varlet ! 
Where got thy mistress such a ready hand 
As thou art ? 



4-52 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Page. [Fencing with the chair.] From an eagle's nest, 
my lord! 

Sfor. I'll swear to it ! Thou hast the eagle's eye ! 
But tell me — what brave gentleman of Milan 
Has thy blood in his veins ? 

Page. I'm not of Milan. 
Sarpellione brought me here from Naples. 

Sfor. Thou'rt not his child. I'll answer for't. 

Page. Not I ! 
I hate him ! Come ! wilt try another pass ? 

Sfor. Stay ! is the Count thy master, then ? 

Page. My master ? 
He's an old snake ! But I'll say this for him, 
Were I a royal prince — (as I may be — 
Who knows !) — Sarpellione could not treat me 
With more becoming honour. 

Sfor. [Starting up suddenly.] What if this 
Should be the duke's son that he told me of? 
Come hither, Sir ! What know you of your father ? 
[Aside.] 'Tis the Visconti's lip ! 

Page. I'll tell you all 
I know, my lord. Alfonso sent me here. 
Five years ago, in quality of page. 
I was to serve my lady and no other, 
And to be gently nurtured. The king gave me 
A smart new feather — bade me bear myself 
Like a young prince at Milan — 

Sfor. [Starting away from him.] It is he ! — 
Princely in spirit, and Visconti's impress 
On every feature ! He'll be Duke of Milan ! 

Page. Heard you the Duke was worse to-day, my lord ? 

Sfor. What duke ? 



WILLIS. 453 

Page. Nay, Sir ! you ought to know what duke ! 
I heard the doctor say you'd wear his crown 
In three days. Never say I told you of it ! 
He whispered it to old Sarpellione, 
Who— 

Sfor. What? 

Page. Looked daggers at him ! 

Sfor. [Aside. Now the devil 
Plucks at my soul indeed ! If the Duke die, 
The crown lies in the gift of my new wife, 
And I were duke as sure as he were dead — 
But for this boy ! [ Walks rapidly up and down. 

I'd set my foot in Venice 
In half a year! — Ferrara — then Bologna — 
Florence — and thence to Naples ! I'd be King 
Of Italy before their mourning's threadbare — 
But for this boy ! . . . [ The Page still fences with the chair. 

I'd found a dynasty ! — 
Be second of the name — but the first king — 
And there should go, e'en with the news, to France, 
A bold ambassador from one Francesco, — 
Sforza by birth^ and King of Italy — 
But for this boy I . . . . 

I would he were a man ! 
I would an army barred me from the crown, 
Sooner than this boy's right ! But he might die ! 
He might have run upon my sword just now ! 
'Twere natural, — and so it were to fall 
In playing with't, and bleed to death unheard, 
From a ripped vein. That would be natural ! 
He might have died in many ways, and / 
Have had no part in't. 



454 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Page. Will you fence, my lord ? 
Sforza. [Clutches his sword, and suddenly sheathes it, 

and walks from him. Aside.] 
(Get thee gone, devil ! After all his glory, 
Shall Sforza be the murderer of a child !) — 
No — no ! I'll not fence with thee ! Go and play ! 
I — I — I — [Turns from him.~\ 

Stay ! shall such a grain of sand 
As a boy's life check Sforza's bold ambition ? 
I, who have hewn down thousands in a day 
For but the play on't — I, upon whose hand 
Sat Slaughter, like a falcon, to let loose 
At all that flew above me ! I — whose conscience 
Carries the reckoning of unnumbered souls, 
Sped unto hell or heaven, for this ambition ! — 
Shall I mar all now with a woman's pity 
For a fair stripling ! 

[Draws his sword; and the Page, who has been re- 
garding him attentively, comes up and pulls him by 
his sleeve. 

Page. Look you here, my lord ! 
If I have harmed you — for you seem so angry, 
I think I have — more than I meant to do — 
Take my own sword and wound me back again ! 
I'll not cry out — and when you see me bleed, 
You'll pardon me that I was so unhappy 
As to have chanced to wound you ! [Sforza. 

[Kneels, opens his bosom, and offers his sword-hilt to 

Sfor. Angels keep me ! 
Give me thy hand, boy ! 

[Looks at him a moment, and passes his hand across 
his eyes. 



WILLIS. 455 

Page, You'll forgive me, Sir ? 
Letting of blood — when done in fair play, mind you — 
Has no offence in't. 

Sfor. Leave me now, sweet boy ! 
I'll see thee at the feast to-night. Farewell ! 

[Page kisses his hand, and exit. 
Shade of my father ! If from heaven thou lookest 
Upon the bright inheritance of glory 
I took from thee — pluck from my tortured soul 
These thoughts of hell, and keep me worthy of thee ! 

[Walks up and down thoughtfully, and then presses 
the crucifix to his lips. 
As I am true to honour and that child, 
Help me, just Heaven ! [Exit. 

The Duke of Milan dies, and Bianca is proclaimed the Duchess of 
Milan. She assumes the Croiun, exulting in the thought that " Sfor- 
za's Children ivill noiv be Dukes of Milan."' Sarpellione brings 
to the neiv-made Duchess a Letter from the King of Spain, informing 
her that Giulio it her Brother, and entitled to the Throne of Milan. 

Scene II. — The Garden of the Palace of Milan. — Enter 
Bianca, in mourning, followed by Sarpellione. 

Bianca. Liar — 'tis not true ! 

Sarpellione. WilPt please you read this letter from the 
king, 
Writ when he sent him to you — 

Bian. [Plucks it from him, and tears it to pieces.] 

'Tis a lie 
Writ by thyself — 

Sar. [ Taking up the pieces.] The king has written here 
The story of his birth, and, that he is 
Your brother, pledges his most royal honour — 



tf6 G OLDEN LEAVES. 

Bian. Lie upon lie — 

Sar. And will maintain the same 
With sword and battle ! 

Bian. Let him ! There's a Sforza 
Will whip him back to Naples ! Tell him so ! 
There'll be a duke upon the throne of Milan 
In three days more, whose children will be kings ! 

Sar. Your brother, madam ! 

Bian. Liar, no ! my husband ! 
The crown is mine, and / will give it him ! 

Sar. Pardon me, lady, 'tis not yours to give ! 
While a Visconti lives — and one does live — 
Princely, and like his father — 'tis not yours : — 
And Sforza dare not take it. 

Bian. He has taken it, 
In taking me. Sforza is duke, I say ! 

Sar. Am I dismissed to Naples with this news ? 

Bian. Ay — on the instant ! 

Sar. Will you give me leave 
To bid the prince make ready for his journey? 

Bian. What prince ? 

Sar. Your brother, madam, who'll come back 
With the whole league of armed Italy 
To take the crown he's born to. 

Bian. I've a page 
I love, called Giulio ! If you mean to ask me 
If he goes with you — lying traitor ! no ! 
I love him, and will keep him ! 

Sar. Ay— till Milan 
Knows him for prince, and then farewell to Sforza ! 
He's flown too near the sun ! 

Bian. Foul raven, silence ! 



WILLIS. 457 

What dost thou know of eagles, who wert born 
To mumble over carrion ! Hast thou looked 
On the high front of Sforza ? Hast thou heard 
The thunder of his voice ? Hast met his eye ? 
'Tis writ upon his forehead — ' ' Born a king !" 
Read it, blind liar ! 

Sar. Upon your brother's, lady, 
The world shall read it. 

Bian. Wilt thou drive me mad ? 
They say all breathing nature has an instinct 
Of that which would destroy it. I of thee 
Feel that abhorrence ! If a glistering serpent 
Hissed in my path, I could not shudder more, 
Nor would I kill it sooner — so begone ! 
I'll strike thee dead else ! 

Sar. Madam ! [Exit Sarpellione. 

Bian. 'Tis my brother ! 
At the first word with which he broke it to me, 
My heart gave Nature's echo ! 'Tis my brother ! 
I would that he were dead — and yet I love him — 
Love him so well, that I could die for him— 
Yet hate him that he bars the crown from Sforza. 
He's betwixt me and heaven ! were he but dead, 
Sforza and I would, like the sun and moon, 
Have all the light the world has ! He must die ! 
Milan will rise for him — his boyish spirit 
Is known and loved in every quarter of it. 
Naples is powerful, and Venice holds 
Direct succession holy, and the lords 
Of all the Marches will cry, cc Down, usurper !" 
For Sforza's glory has o'ershadowed theirs. 
Both cannot live, or I must live unloved — 



45 8 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

And that were hell — or die, and heaven without him 
Were but a hell — for I've no soul to go there ! 
Nothing but love ! no memory but that ! 
No hope ! no sense ! — Heaven were a madhouse to me ! — 
Hark ! who comes here ? 

Enter Sarpellione and Brunorio. Bianca conceals herself. 

Sar. Strike but this blow, Brunorio — 
And thou'rt a made man ! 

Bru. Sforza sleeps not well. 

Sar, Art thou less strong of arm than he who called thee 
A brainless ass ? 

Bru. 'Sdeath, he did call me so ! 

Sar. And more I never told thee. Pay him for it — 
And thou wilt save a prince who'll cherish thee, 
And Sforza's soul a murder — for he'll kill him 
Ere one might ride to Naples. 

Bru. Think'st thou so ? 

Sar. Is it not certain ? If this boy were dead, 
Sforza were duke. With Milan at his back, 
He were the devil ! Rather than see this, 
Alfonso would share half his kingdom with thee. 

Bru. I'll do it ! 

Sar. Thou wilt save a prince's life 
Whom he would murder. Now collect thy senses, 
And look around thee ! On that rustic bank, 
Close by the fountain, with his armour off, 
He sleeps away the noon. 

Bru. With face uncovered? 

Sar. Sometimes — but oftener with his mantle drawn 
Quite over him ! But thou must strike so well, 
That, should he see thee, he will never tell on't . 



WILLIS. 459 

Bru. I'd rather he were covered. 

Sar. 'Tis most likely — 
But mark the ground well. By this alley here, 
You'll creep on unperceived. If he's awake — 
You're his lieutenant, and may have good reason 
To seek him any hour ? Are you resolved ? 

Bru. I am ! 

Sar. Once more look round you ! 

Bru. If he sleep 
To-morrow, he'll ne'er wake ! 

Sar. Why, that's well said — 
Come now, and try the horse I've chosen for you. 
We'll fly like birds with welcome news to Naples ! 

[Exeunt Sarpellione and Brunorio. 

Bian. Thank God that I was here ! Can there be souls 
So black as these — to plot so foul a murder ? 
O unretributive and silent Heavens ! 

Heard you these men ? Thank God that I can save him ! 
The sun shone on them — on these murderers — 
As it shines now on me! — Would it were Giulio 
They thought to murder ! — Ha ! what ready fiend 
Whispered me that ? Giulio instead of Sforza ! 
Why, that were murder, too I — Brunorio's murder, 
Not mine ! — my hands would show no blood for it ! 
If Giulio were asleep beneath the mantle 
To-morrow noon, and Sforza in his chamber — 
What murder lies upon my soul for that ? . . . . 
I'll come again to-night, and see the place, 
And think on't in the dark ! [Exit Bianca. 

Same Scene in the Garden. — Enter Bianca. 
Bian. No ! no ! come hate — come worse indifference ! 



460 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Come any thing — I will not ! He is gone 
To bring me flowers now, for he sees I'm sad ; 
Yet, with his delicate thought, asks not the reason, 
But tries to steal it from me ! — Could I kill him ? 
His eyes grew moist this morn, for I was pale — 
With thinking of his murder ! could I kill him ? 
O Sforza ! I could walk on burning ploughshares, 
But not kill pitying Giulio ! I could starve — 
Or freeze with wintry cold — or swallow fire — 
Or die a death for every drop of blood 
Kneeling at my sad heart, but not kill Giulio ! 
No — no — no ! no ! 

Sforza comes in dejectedly. 

My lord ! my noble lord ! 

Sfor. Give you good-day, Bianca ! 

Bian. Are you ill, 
That you should drop your words so sorrowfully ? 

Sfor, I am not ill, nor well ! 

Bian. Not well ? 

Sfor. The pulse 
Beats on sometimes, when the heart quite runs down. 
I'm very well ! 

Bian. My lord, you married me — 
The priest said so — to share both joy and sorrow. 
For the last privilege I've shed sweet tears ! — 
If I'm not worthy — 

Sfor. Nay — you are ! — I thank you 
For many proofs of gentle disposition, 
Which, to say truth, I scarcely looked for in you — 
Knowing that policy, and not your choice, 
United us ! 



WILLIS. 461 

Bian. My lord ! 

Sfor. I say you're worthy, 
For this, to see my heart — if you could do so, 
But there's a grief in't now which brings you joy, 
And so you'll pardon me ! 

Giulio comes in with a heap of flowers, which he throws 
down, and listens. 

Bian, That cannot be ! 

Sfor. Listen to this. I had a falcon lately, 
That I had trained, till, in the sky above him, 
He was the monarch of all birds that flew. 
I loved him next my heart, and had no joy, 
But to unloose his feet, and see the eagle 
Quail at his fiery swoop ! I brought him here ! 
Sitting one day upon my wrist, he heard 
The nightingale you love, sing in the tree, 
While I applauded him. With jealous heart 
My falcon sprang to kill him : and with fear 
For your sweet bird, I struck him to my feet ; 
And since that hour, he droops. His heart is broke, 
And he'll ne'er soar again ! 

Page. Why, one such bird 
Were worth a thousand nightingales. 

Bian. [Aside.] Poor boy ! 
He utters his own doom ! [To Sforza.] My lord, I have 
A slight request, which you will not refuse me. 
Please you, to-day sleep in your chamber. I 
Will give you reason for't. 

Sfor. Be ; t as you will ! 
The noon creeps on apace, and in my dreams 
[ may forget this heaviness. [Goes in. 



462 GOLDEN LEAVES, 

Bian. Be stern, 
Strong heart ! and think on Sforza ! — Giulio ! 

Page. Madam ! 

Bian. [Aside.] He's hot and weary now, and will 
drink freely 
This opiate in his cup, and from his sound 
And sudden sleep he'll wake in Paradise. 
Giulio, I say ! [She mixes an opiate. 

Page. Sweet lady, pardon me ! 
I dreamed I was in heaven, and feared to stir 
Lest I should jar some music. Was't your voice 
I heard sing, " Giulio ?" 

Bian. [Aside.] O ye pitying angels, 
Let him not love me most, when I would kill him! — 
Drink, Giulio ! 

Page. Is it sweet ? 

Bian. The sweetest cup 
You'll drink in this world ! 

Page. I can make it sweeter — 

Bian. And how ? 

Page. With your health in it ! 

Bian, Drink it not ! 
Not my health ! Drink what other health thou wilt ! 
Not mine— not mine ! 

Page. Then here's the noble falcon 
That Sforza told us of! Would you not kill 
The nightingale that broke his spirit, madam ? 

Bian. O Giulio! Giulio! [Weeps. 

Page. Nay — I did not think 
You loved your singing-bird so well, dear lady ! 

Bian. (He'll break my heart !) 

Page. Say truly ! if the falcon 



WILLIS. 463 

Must pine unless the nightingale were dead, 
Would you not kill it ? 

Bian. Though my life went with it — 
I must do so ! 

Page. Why — so I think ! And yet 
If I had fed the nightingale, and loved him — 
And he were innocent, as, after all, 
He is, you know — I should not like to kill him — 
Not with my own hands ! 

Bian . Now, relentless Heavens, 
Must I be struck with daggers through and through ? 
Speaks, not a mocking demon with his lips ? 
I will not kill him ! 

Page. Sforza has gone in — 
May I sleep there, sweet lady, in his place ? 

Bian. No, boy ! thou shalt not ! 

Page. Then will you ? 

Bian. O God ! 
I would I could ! and have no waking after ! 
Come hither, Giulio ! nay — nay — stop not there ! 
Come on a little, and I'll make thy pillow 
Softer than ever mine will be again ! 
Tell me you love me ere you go to sleep ! 

Page. With all my soul, dear mistress ! [Drops asleep. 

Bian. Now he sleeps, 
This mantle for his pall — but stay — his shape 
Looks not like Sforza under it. Fair flowers, 
[Heaps them at his feet, and spreads the mantle over all. 
Your innocence to his ! Exhale together, 
Pure spirit and sweet fragrance ! So — one kiss ! 
Giulio ! my brother ! — Who comes there? — Wake, Giulio ! 
Or thou'lt be murdered ! — Nay, 'twas but the wind ! 



464 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

[ Withdraws on tiptoe, and crouches behind a tree. 
I will kneel here and pray ! 

Brunorio creeps in, followed by Sarpellione at a distance. 

Hark! 

Sar. See — he sleeps. ■ 
Strike well, and fear not ! 

Bian. [Springing forward as he strikes.] 

Giulio ! Giulio ! wake ! 
Ah God ! 

[She drops on the body, the murderer escapes, and Sforz a 
rushes in. As he bends over her, the scene closes. 

Bianca, horror-stricken at the Murder of Giulio, loses her Reason, and 
dies. Sforza is proclaimed Duke of Milan. 

Scene III. — A Room of State in the Palace. Enter Ros- 
sano and a Priest. 

Rossano. Will she not eat ? — 

Priest. She hath not taken food 
Since the boy died ! 

Ros. Nor slept ? 

Priest. Nor closed an eyelid ! 

Ros. What does she ? 

Priest. Still, with breathless repetition, 
Goes through the page's murder — makes his couch 
As he lay down i* the garden — heaps again 
The flowers upon him to eke out his length ; 
Then kisses him, and hides to see him killed ! 
'Twould break your heart to look on't. 

Ros. Is't the law 
That she must crown him ? 

Priest. If, upon the death 
Of any duke of Milan, the succession 



WILLIS. 465 

Fall to a daughter, she may rule alone, 
Giving her husband neither voice nor power 
If she so please. But if she delegate 
The crown to him, or in extremity 
Impose it, it is not legitimate, 
Save he is crowned by her own living hands, 
In presence of the council. 

Enter Sforza, hastily, in full armour, except the helmet. 

Sfor. Ho ! Rossano ! 

Ros. My lord ! 

Sfor. Send quick, and summon in the council 
To see the crown imposed ! Bianca dies ! 
My throne hangs on your speed ! Fly ! [Exit Rossano. 

Sentry, Ho ! 
Dispatch a hundred of my swiftest horse 
Toward Naples ! Bring me back Sarpellione ! 
Alive or dead, a thousand ducats for him ! 
Quick ! [Exit Sentinel ; re-enter Rossano. 

Ros. I have sped your orders ! 

Enter a Messenger. 

Please, my lord, 
Lady Bianca prays your presence with her ! 

Sfor. Away! Fll come! [To Rossano.] Go, man the 
citadel 
With my choice troops ! Post them at every gate ! 
Send for the Milanese to scout or forage, 
I care not what, so they're without the wall ! 
And hark, Rossano ! if you hear a knell 
Wail out before the coronation peal, — 
Telling to Milan that Bianca's dead, 



466 GOLDEN LEAVES, 

And there's no duke, — down with the ducal banner, 
And, like an eagle, to the topmost tower 
Up with my gonfalon ! Away ! 

Re-enter the Messenger from Bianca. 

Mess. My lord ! 

Sfor. I come ! I come ! 

Pasquali. [Without.'] In! in! 

Enter Sarpellione, followed by Pasquali. 

Sar. [Aghast at the sight ^Sforza.] Alive ! 

Sfor. Ha, devil! 
Have you come back to get some fresher news ? 
Alfonso *d know who's duke ! While you are hanging, 
I'll ride to Naples with the news myself. 
Ha ! ha ! my star smiles on me ! 

[Bianca rushes in and crouches at the side of Sforza, as 
if hiding from something beyond him. 

Bian. Hark ! I hear them ! — 
Come, come, Brunorio ! If you come not quick, 
My heart will break, and wake him ! 

[Presses her hand painfully to her side. 
Crack not yet ! — 
Nay, think on Sforza ! Think 'tis for his love ! 
Giulio will be an angel up in heaven, 
And Sforza will drink glory from my hand ! — ■ 
Come, come, Brunorio ! [Screams piercingly.'] Ah ! who 

murdered Giulio ? 
Not I !— not I ! not I ! 

Sfor. [ Watching her with emotion.] O God, how dearly 
Are bought the proudest triumphs of this world ! 

Bian. Will the bell never peal ? 



WILLIS. 467 

Priest. [To an Attendant.] On that string only 
Her mind plays truly now. Her life hangs on it. 
The waiting for the bell of coronation 
Is the last link that holds. 

Sfor. [Raising her.] My much-loved wife ! 

Bian. Is it thee, Sforza ? Has the bell pealed yet ? 

Sfor. Think not of that, but take some drink, Bianca : 
You'll kill me this way ! 

Bian. [Dashing down the cup.] Think you I'll drink fire ! 

Sfor. Then taste of this. [Offers her a pomegranate. 

Bian. [Laughing bitterly.] I'm not a fool! I know 
The fruit of hell has ashes at the core ! 
Mock me some other way ! 

Sfor. My poor Bianca ! 

Bian. Ha ! ha ! that's well done ! You've the shape of 
Sforza, 
And you're a devil, and can mock his voice,. 
But Sforza never spoke so tenderly ! 
You overdo it. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Sfor. God help me, 
I would her brother had been duke in Milan, 
And I his slave — so she had lived and loved me ! 

Bian. Can you see heaven from hence ? I thought 
'twas part 
Of a soul's agony in hell to see 
The blest afar off. Can I not see Giulio ? 

[Struggles as if to escape something before her eyes. 
Sforza's between ! [a moment. 

Sfor. Bianca ! sayst thou that ? [Struggles with himself 
Nay, then, 'tis time to say, — Farewell, Ambition ! 
[Turns to the priest.] Look, father ! I'm unskilled in holy 
things ; 



468 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

But I have heard, the sacrifice of that 

Which the repenting soul loved more than heaven, 

Will work a miracle. 

[ Takes his sword from its scabbard, and proceeds 
in a deeper voice, 
I love my sword 
As never mother loved her rosy child ! 
My heart is in its hilt — my life, my soul, 
Follow it like the light ! Say thou dost think 
If I give that up for a life of peace, 
Heaven will give back her reason — 
Priest [Eagerly.] Doubt it not! 
Sfor. Then — take it ! 

[Drops the hilt into his hand, and holds it a moment. 
Sarpellione. [In a hoarse whisper.] Welcome news for 

King Alfonso ! 
Sfor. [Starting.] Fiend ! sayst thou so ? — Nay, then, 
come back, my sword ! 
I'll follow in its gleaming track to Naples, 
If the world perish ! 

Enter Rossano. 
Now, what news, Rossano ? 
Ros. In answer to your wish, the noble council 
Consent to see the crown imposed in private : 
Three delegated lords will presently 
Attend you here. 

Sfor. [Energetically.] Tell him who strikes the bell, 
To look forth from his tower and watch this window: 
When he shall see a handkerchief wave hence, 
Let him peal out ! [Attendant goes out. 

My gonfalon shall float 
Over St. Mark's before Foscari dreams 



WILLIS. 469 

There's a new duke in Milan ! Let Alfonso 
Look to the north ! 

Enter Attendant. 

Attend. My lord, the noble council 
Wait to come in. [Sforza waves his hand, and they enter. 

1st Lord. Health to the noble Sforza ! 

Sfor. My lords, the deep calamity we suffer 
Must cut off ceremony. Milan's heiress 
Lies there before you, failing momently, 
But holds in life to give away the crown. 
If you're content to see her put it on me, 
Let it be so as quickly as it may. — 

Give signal for the bell ! [The handkerchief is waved, and 
the bell peals. Bianca rises to her feet. 

Bian. It peals at last ! 
Where am I ? — Bring some wine, dear Giulio ! 

[Looks round fearfully. 
Am I awake now ? I've been dreaming here 
That he was dead, ! — O God ! a horrid dream ! — 
Come hither, Sforza. I have dreamt a dream — 
If I can tell it you — will make your hair 
Stand up with horror ! 

Sfor. Tell it not ! 

Bian. This Giulio 
Was, in my dream, my brother ! how I knew it, 
I do not now remember — but I did! 
And loved him (that, you know, must be a dream) 
Better than you. 

Sfor. What — better? 

Bian. Was't not strange ? 
Being my brother, he must have the crown. — 
Stay ! is my father dead — or was't i' the dream too ? 



47° GOLDEN LEAVES, 

Sfor. He's dead, Bianca ! 

Bian. Well ! you loved me not, 
And Giulio did — and somehow you should hate me 
If he were duke ; and so I killed him, loving me, 
For you that loved me not I Is it not strange 
That we can dream such things ? The manner of it — 
To see it in a play — would break your heart, 
It was so pitiless ! Look here ! this boy 
Brings me a heap of flowers ! — I'll show it you 
As it was done before me in the dream ! 
Don't weep ! 'twas but a dream — but I'll not sleep 
Again till I've seen Giulio — the blood seemed 
So ghastly natural ! I shall see it, Sforza, 
Till I have passed my hand across his side. 
[Turning to the Attendants .] Will some one call my page ? 

Sfor, My own Bianca, 
Will you not drink ? [She drops the cup in horror. 

Bian. Just such a cup as that 
Had liquid fire in't when the deed was done — 
A devil mocked me with it ! 

[Another cup is brought, and she drinks. 
This is wine ! 
Thank God, I wake now ! 

[She turns to an Attendant.] Will you see if Giulio 
Is in the garden ? 

Sfor. Strike the bell once more ! 

Bian. He kissed me ere he slept — wilt listen, Sforza ? 

Sfor. Tell me no more, sweet one ! 

Bian. And then I heaped 
The very flowers he brought me, at his feet, 
To eke his body out as long as yours — 
Was't not a hellish dream ? 



WILLIS. 471 

[ The bell strikes again, and she covers her ears 
in horror. 

That bell ! O God, 
'Tis no dream! — now I know — yes — yes — I know 
These be the councillors — and you are Sforza, 
And that's Rossano — and I killed my brother 
To make you duke ! Yes, yes ! I see it all ! — 
O God ! O God ! [She covers her face, and weeps. 

Sfor. My lords, her reason rallies 
Little by little. With this flood of tears, 
Her brain's relieved, and she'll give over raving. — 
My wife ! Bianca ! If thou ever lovedst me, 
Look on my face ! 

Bian. O Sforza ! I have given, 
For thy dear love, the eyes I had to see it, 
The ears to hear it. I have broke my heart 
In reaching for't ! 

Sfor. Ay — but 'tis thine now, sweet one ! 
The life-drops in my heart are less dear to me. 

Bian. Too late ! You've crushed the light out of a gem 
You did not know the price of. Had you spoken 
But one kind word upon my bridal night ! — 

Sfor. Forgive me, my Bianca ! 

Bian. I am parched 
With thirst now, and my eyes grow faint and dim. — 
Are you here, Sforza ? Mourn not for me long, 
But bury me with Giulio ! [Starts from him. 

Hark ! I hear 
His voice now ! Do the walls of Paradise 
Jut over hell ? I heard his voice, I say ! 

[Strikes off Sforza, who approaches her. 
Unhand me, devil ! You've the shape of one 
21 



472 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Who upon earth had no heart ! Can you take 
No shape but that ? Can you not look like Giulio ? 

[Sforza falls back, struck with remorse. 
Hark ! 'tis his low, imploring voice again : 
He prays for poor Bianca ! And look — see you ! 
The portals stir ! Slow, slow — and difficult; — 

[Creeps Jorward, with he r eyes upward 
Pray on, my brother ! Pray on, Giulio ! 
I come ! [Falls on her face. — Sforza drops on his knee, 
pale and trembling 
Sfor. My soul shrinks with unnatural fear ! 
What heard I then ? " Sforza, give up thy sword !" 
Was it from heaven, or hell ? 

[Shrinks as if from some spectre in the air. 
I will ! I will ! 
[Holds out his sword, as if to the Monk ; and Sarpel- 
lione, who has been straining forward to watch 
Bianca, springs suddenly to her side. 
Sar. She's dead ! Ha ! ha ! — who's duke in Milan 
now ? [Sforza rises with a bound. 

Sfor. Sforza ! 

[He flies to the window, and waves the handkerchief. 
The bell peals out, and, as he rushes to Bianca, she 
moves, lifts her head, looks wildly around, and 
struggles to her feet. Rossano gives her the crown ; 
she looks an instant smilingly on Sforza, and with a 
difficult but calm effort places it on his head. All 
drop on one knee, to do allegiance; and, as Sforza 
lifts himself to his loftiest height, with a look of tri- 
umph at Sarpellione, Bianca sinks dead at his feet. 
Curtain falls. 



WILLIS. 473 

THE USURER. 

Tortesa, a rich Usurer, is about to tved Isabella, the Daughter of 
Count Falcone, ivho is deeply indebted to Tortesa. The Duchess 
of Florence is desirous of having the Portrait of Isabella painted by 
Angelo, a young Artist. Angelo goes to the Palace of Falcone to 
execute the commission intrusted to him. 

Scene III. — An Apartment in the Falcone Palace. — An- 
gelo discovered listening. 
Angelo. Did I hear footsteps ? [He listens.] Fancy 
plays me tricks 
In my impatience for this lovely wonder ! 
That window's to the north ! The light falls cool. 
I'll set my easel here, and sketch her. — Stay ! 
How shall I do that ? Is she proud or sweet ? 
Will she sit silent, or converse and smile r 
Will she be vexed or pleased to have a stranger 
Pry through her beauty for the soul that's in 'it ? 
Nay, then I heard a footstep — she is here ! 

Enter Isabella, reading her Father's missive. 

Isabella. " The duke would have your picture for the 
duchess 
Done by this rude man, Angelo. Receive him 
With modest privacy, and let your kindness 
Be measured by his merit, not his garb." 

Aug. Fair lady ! 

Isa. .Who speaks ? 

Ang. Angelo ! 

Isa. You've come, Sir, 
To paint a dull face, trust me. 

Ang. [Aside.] Beautiful, 
Beyond all dreaming ! 



474 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Isa. I've no smiles to show you, 
Not even a mock one. Shall I sit ? 

Ang. No, lady ; 
111 steal your beauty while you move, as well ; 
So you but breathe, the air still brings to me 
That which outdoes all pencilling. 

Isa. [Walking apart] His voice 
Is not a rude one. What a fate is mine, 
When even the chance words on a poor youth's tongue, 
Contrasted with the voice which I should love, 
Seem rich and musical ! 

Aug. [To himself as he draws.] How like a swan, 
Drooping his small head to a lily-cup, 
She curves that neck of pliant ivory ! 
I'll paint her thus ! 

Isa. [Aside.] Forgetful where he is, 
He thinks aloud. This is, perhaps, the rudeness 
My father feared might anger me. 

Ang. What colour 
Can match the clear red of those glorious lips ? 
Say it were possible to trace the arches, 
Shaped like the drawn bow of the god of love — 
How tint them, after ? 

Isa. Still, he thinks not of me, 
But murmurs to his picture. 'Twere sweet praise, 
Were it a lover whispering it. I'll listen, 
As I walk, still. 

Ang. They say, a cloudy veil 
Hangs ever at the crystal gate of heaven, 
To bar the issue of its blinding glory. 
So droop those silken lashes to an eye 
Mortal could never paint ! 



WILLIS. 475 

Isa. There's flattery, 
Would draw down angels ! 

Ang. Now, what alchemy 
Can mock the rose and lily of her cheek ? 
I must look closer on't ! [Advancing.] Fair lady, please you, 
I'll venture to your side. 

Isa. Sir ! 

Ang. [Examining her cheek.] There's a mixture 
Of white and red here, that defeats my skill. 
If you'll forgive me, I'll observe an instant, 
How the bright blood and the transparent pearl 
Melt to each other. 

Isa. [Receding from him.] You're too free, Sir. 

Ang. [With surprise.] Madam! 

Isa. [Aside.] And yet, I think not so. He must look 
on it, 
To paint it well. 

Ang. Lady ! the daylight's precious : 
Pray you, turn to me. In my study, here, 
I've tried to fancy how that ivory shoulder 
Leads the white light off from your arching neck, 
But cannot, for the envious sleeve that hides it. 
Please you, displace it. [Raises his hand to the sleeve. 

Isa. Sir, you are too bold ! 

Ang. Pardon me, lady ! Nature's masterpiece 
Should be beyond your hiding, or my praise. 
Were you less marvellous, I were too bold ; 
But there's a pure divinity in beauty, 
Which the true eye of Art looks on with reverence, 
Though, like the angels, it were all unclad ! 
You have no right to hide it. 

Isa. How ! No right ? 



476 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Ang. 'Tis the religion of our art, fair madam, 
That, by oft looking on the type divine 
In which we first were moulded, men remember 
The heaven they're born to. You've an errand here, 
To show how look the angels. But, as Vestals 
Cherish the sacred fire, yet let the priest 
Light his lamp at it for a thousand altars, 
So is your beauty unassoiled, though I 
Ravish a copy for the shut-out world ! 

Is a. [Aside.] Here is the wooing that should win a maid ! 
Bold, yet respectful — free, yet full of honour! 
I never saw a youth with gentler eyes ; 
I never heard a voice that pleased me more : 
Let me look on him ! 

Enter Tortesa, unperceived. 

Ang. In a form like yours, 
All parts are perfect, madam ; yet, unseen, 
Impossible to fancy. With your leave 
I'll see your hand ungloved. 

Is a. [Removing her glove. ~\ I have no heart 
To keep it from you, Signor. There it is ! 

Ang. [Taking it in his own.] O God, how beautiful 
Thy works may be ! 
Inimitably perfect ! Let me look 
Close on the tracery of these azure veins. 
With what a delicate and fragile thread 
They weave their subtle mesh beneath the skin, 
And meet, all blushing, in these rosy nails ! 
How soft the texture of these tapering fingers ! 
How exquisite the wrist ! how perfect all ! 

[Tortesa rushes forward. 



WILLIS. 477 

Tor. Now have I heard enough ! Why, what are you, 
To palm the hand of my betrothed bride [to his work. 
With this licentious freedom ? [Angelo turns composedly 
And you, madam ! 

With a first troth scarce cold upon your lips — 
Is this your chastity ? 

Isa. My father's roof 
Is o'er me ! I'm not your wife. 

Tor. Bought — paid for ! 
The wedding toward : have I no right in you ? 
Your father, at my wish, bade you be private : 
Is this obedience ? 

Isa. Count Falcone's will 
Has, to his daughter, ever been a law ; 
This, in prosperity — and now, when chance 
Frowns on his broken fortunes, I were dead 
To love and pity, were not soul and body 
Spent for his smallest need ! I did consent 
To wed his ruthless creditor for this ; 
I would have sprung into the sea, the grave, 
As questionless and soon ! My troth is yours ; 
But, I'm not wedded yet, and, till I am, 
The hallowed honour that protects a maid 
Is round me, like a circle of bright fire : 
A savage would not cross it — nor shall you ! 
I'm mistress of my presence. Leave me, Sir ! 

Tor. There's a possession of some lordly acres 
Sold to Falcone for that lily hand ; 
The deed's delivered, and the hand's my own ! 
I'll see that no man looks on't. 

Isa. Shall a lady 
Bid you begone twice ? 



4/78 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Tor. Twenty times, if't please you !" [painting. 

[She looks at Angelo, who continues tranquilly 

Is a. [Aside.] Does he not wear a sword ? Is he a coward, 
That he can hear this man heap insult on me, 
And ne'er fall on him ? 

Tor. Lady, to your chamber ! 
I have a touch to give this picture, here, [her by the arm. 
But want no model for't. Come, come ! [Offers to take 

Isa. Stand back ! 
[Aside.] Now, will he see this wretch lay hands on me, 
And never speak ? He cannot be a coward ! 
No, no ! some other reason — not a coward ; 
I could not love a coward ! 

Tor. If you will, 
Stay where you're better missed — 'tis at your pleasure; 
I'll hew your kisses from the saucy lips 
Of this bold painter — look on't, if you will ! 
And first, to mar his picture ! 

[He strikes at the canvas, when Angelo suddenly 
draws, attacks, and disarms him. 

Ang. Hold ! What wouldst thou ? 
Fool ! madman ! dog ! what wouldst thou with my picture ? 
Speak ! — But thy life would not bring back a ray 
Of precious daylight, and I cannot waste it. 
Begone ! begone ! [and returns to his Picture. 

[Throws Tortesa's sword from the window, 
I'll back to paradise ! 
'Twas this touch that he marred. So — fair again ! 

Tor. [Going out.'] I'll find you, Sir, when I'm in cooler 
blood !— 
And, madam, you, or Count Falcone for you, 
Shall rue this scorn ! [Exit. 



SARGENT. 479 

Is a. [Looking at Angelo.] Lost in his work once more : 
I shall be jealous of my very picture ! 
Yet one who can forget his passions so — 
Peril his life, and, losing scarce a breath, 
Turn to his high, ambitious toil again — 
Must have a heart for whose belated waking 
Queens might keep vigil ! 

Ang. Twilight falls, fair lady ! 
I must give o'er. Pray Heaven, the downy wing 
Of its most loving angel guard your beauty ! 
Good-night ! [Goes out, with a low reverence. 

Isa. Good-night ! \_She looks after him a moment, and 
then walks thoughtfully off the stage. 



Gtyzs Sargent. 

VELASCO! A TRAGEDY. 

Vfxasco, Son of the Count de Lerma, is betrothed to Izidora, Daugh- 
ter of Gonzalez. A long-standing Feud exists between the Houses 
of De Lerma and Gonzalez, and the latter only yields his univilling 
consent at the command of his Sovereign. Hernando, Kinsman of 
Gonzalez, secretly loves Izidora, and, hoping to break off her ap- 
proaching Marriage, plays upon the credulity of Gonzalez, by false 
accusations against the Count de Lerma. 

A Street in Burgos. — Enter Gonzalez and Hernando. 

Gonzalez. Nay ; do not fret me with ambiguous hints. 
We spake of old De Lerma ; and you said, 
It was the dotard's privilege to slander. — 
To slander whom? — the king? yourself? myself? 



480 GO'LVEN LEAVES. 

You signify no negative to that. 

What is't, Hernando ? Speak with more direction. 

Hernando. My lord, you must forgive me. Press me not 
To more disclosures — for my peace and thine. 

Gon. Well, well ; 'twere better that it should not be. 
De Lerma and myself must soon be fathers 
To the same children. 

Her. That shall curb my speech. 
Let base Detraction slur thy honoured name ; 
Can I regard thee as less brave or loyal, 
Though others prate of cowardice and treason ? 

Gon. Those words were never coupled with my name ? 

Her. It happened thus : Dispute was running high 
Upon the German Emperor's new pretensions ; 
Some did admit them ; but De Lerma cried — 
" If Henry claim dominion o'er Castile, 
Let him prove good his title by the sword ! 
And cursed be the cravens and the traitors 
Who would submit to such a vassalage !" 
" There are good men and true," was my reply, 
" Who favour his pretensions." — "No, not one." — 
" What sayst thou to Gonzalez ?" 

Gon. Ah ! what then ? 
He did not dare — 

Her. Ay, kinsman; he did dare 
To stigmatize thee as a craven traitor. 

Gon. Hernando ! if thou playst me false, thy life 
Shall be an immolation to my fury ! 

[Seizes him, and looks intently in his face. 

Her. I can bring proofs, my lord. Nay ; is this cour- 
teous ? 
Well : gives my face the lie to my assertion ? 






SARGENT. 481 

Gon. How couldst thou dare, even in repetition, 
To breathe those words of me ? 

Her. My lord, forbear. 
'Twas zeal for thine own honour made me bold. 

Gon. Zeal for mine honour ! Venom of thy soul ! 

Her. Hold ! if thou dost not shrink from actual proof, 
Here comes De Lerma ; charge it home on him. 
If he deny it, spurn me as thou wilt. 

Gon. Leave me. 

Her. [Aside.] The spark has caught ! it kindles fast : 
The conflagration blood alone can quench ! [Exit. 

Gon. Should it prove true ! He comes ! I must keep 
down 
These throes of passion. [De Lerma enters, and is crossing. 
Sir ! a word with you. 

De Lerma. I am a listener — an impatient one — 
'Twere best that this encounter should be brief. 

Gon. This haughtiness ! My lord, the King, 'tis said, 
Refuses to admit the Emperor's claim. 

De Ler. Thank Heaven, the King's no recreant, no 
coward, 
But a Castilian, heart and hand, my lord : 
Would I might say the same of all his subjects ! 

Gon. Throw'st thou the taunt on me ? 

De Ler. Wherefore this rage, 
If thou art innocent ? 

Gon. De Lerma ! dotard! [Half unsheathes his szv or d, 
hut instantly dashes it into the scabbard. 
No, no ! thou'rt old and feeble ; and our children — 
Oh, do not tamper with my desperation ! 
[In a sudden burst of passion.] Retract what thou hast 
said ! 



482 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

De Ler. Not while the proofs 
Appear even now in all thy looks and actions. 

Gon. 'Tis false! Thou urgest me to frenzy — thus! 
[Strikes kim.~\ It will find vent ! 

De Ler. A blow ! dishonoured ! struck ! 
[Draws.'] Defend thyself, ere I commit a murder. 

Gon. With thee I'll not contend : thy arm is nerveless. 
The odds are too unequal. 

De Ler. Then I rush 
Upon thee as thou art ! 

[As De Lerma rushes upon him, Gonzalez wrests 
away his sword, and throws it upon the ground. 

Gon. I spare thy life. 

De Ler. Oh ! spare it not, if mercy thou wouldst show ; 
Thou givest me back only what thou hast made 
A misery, a burden, a disgrace ! 
It is a gift for which I cannot thank thee. 

Gon. Keep it, my lord : and let this lesson teach, 
What thy gray hairs have failed to bring thee — prudence. 

[Exit. 

De Ler. [ Taking up his sword.] Thou treacherous steel ! 
art thou the same, alas ! 
Of yore so crimsoned in the Moorish wars ? 
Methinks there should have been a soul in thee, 
The soul of victories and great achievements, 
To form a living instrument of vengeance, 
And, in the weakness of thy master's arm, 
To leap spontaneous to his honour's rescue. 
Go ! 'tis a mockery to wear thee now. 

[Throws down his sword. 
Struck like a menial ! buffeted, degraded, 
And baffled in my impotent attack ! 



SARGENT. 48] 

Fate ! O Time ! why, when ye took away 
From this right arm its cunning and its strength, 
Its power to shield from wrong, or to redress, 
Did ye not pluck from out this swelling heart 
Its torturing sense of insult and of shame ? 

1 am sunk lower than the lowest wretch ! 

Oh, that the earth might hide me ! that I might 
Sink fathoms deep beneath its peaceful breast ! 

[Retires up the Stage, and leans against a pillar. 

Enter Velasco. 

VeL The peerless Izidora ! how my thoughts, 
Swept by the grateful memory of her love, 
Still bend to her like flowers before the breeze ! 
They paint her image on vacuity — 
They make the air melodious with her voice ! 
And she — the idol of my boyhood's dreams — 
Is now mine own betrothed ! Benignant Heavens ! 
The gulf is passed which threatened to divide us, 
And the broad Future un obscured expands ! 

De Ltr. [Advancing .] Oh, be thy vauntings hushed ! 

VeL My father here ! 
There is distraction in thy haggard looks. 
Thou art not well. Let me support thee hence. 

De Ler. It is no corporal ill ! 

Art thou my son ? 

VeL My father ! 

De Ler. In thy feeble childhood, who 
Sustained thee, reared thee, and protected thee ? 

VeL It was thyself. 

De Ler. And, in thy forward youth, 
Who plumed thy soul for glory's arduous flight ? 



4 8 4 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Instructed thee, till in thy martial fame 
Thou didst eclipse thy master ? 

Vel. Thou alone ! 
And in thy waning age, this arm shall be 
Thy shield and thy support ! 

De Lev. Thou art my son ! 
Velasco, from a haughty ancestry 
We claim descent : whose glory it has been, 
That never one of their illustrious line 
Was tainted with dishonour. Yesterday 
That boast was true — it is no longer true ! 

Vel. No longer true ! Who of our race, my lord, 
Has proved unworthy of the name he bears ? 

De Ler. I am that wretch. 

Vel Thou! father? 

Dc Lev. Ay. I thought 
Thou wouldst shrink from me as a thing accursed ! 
'Tis right — I taught thee. Thou but mind'st my dictates- 
But do not curse me ; for there was a time, 
When I had felled him lifeless at my feet ! 
The will was strong, although the nerveless arm 
Dropped palsied to my side. 

Vel. My father ! speak ! 
Explain this mystery. 

De Ler. I have been struck ; 
Degraded by a vile and brutal blow ! 
Oh, thou art silent ! Thou wilt not despise me ? 

Vel. Who was the rash aggressor ? He shall die ! 
Nay, 'twas some serf — there's not the gentleman 
In all Castile would lay an unkind hand 
Upon thy feebleness. Then, do not think 
Thyself disgraced, my honourable father, 



SARGENT. 485 

More than if smitten by a lion's claw, 
A horse's hoof — the falling of a rafter ! 
Know'st thou the offender's name ? 

De Ler. Alas ! no serf, 
No man of low degree, has done this deed : 
The aggressor is our equal. 

VeL Say'st thou so ? 
Then, by my sacred honour, he shall die ! 

De Ler. Thou wilt hold true to that ? 

VeL Have I not said ? 
Were it the King himself, who dared profane 
A single hair upon thy reverend brow, 
I would assail him on his guarded throne, 
And with his life-blood stain the marble floor ! 

De Ler, Thou noble scion of a blighted stock ! 
I yet am strong in thee. Thou shalt avenge 
This ignominious wrong. 

VeL Who did it ? Speak ! 

De Ler. Gonzalez did it. 

VeL No, no, no ! the air 
In fiendish mockery syllabled that name. 
It was a dreadful fantasy ! My lord — 

De Ler. Pedro Gonzalez. 

VeL Izidora's father ! 

De Ler. Oh ! thou hast other ties. I did forget. 
Go. Thou'rt released. 

VeL There must be expiation ! 
Oh, I am very wretched ! But fear not. 
There shall be satisfaction or atonement ! 

De Ler. Thou say'st it. To thy trust I yield mine 
honour. [Exit. 

VeL While the proud bird soared to the noonday sun, 



4.86 GOLDEN LEAVE S. 

The shaft was sped that dashed him to the earth ! 
'Twas winged by Fate ! 'Tis here ! I cannot shrink 
From the appalling sense that it is real ! 
This throbbing brain, this sick and riven heart, 
These shudders, that convulse my very soul, 
Confirm the dreadful truth. But oh, to think 
Of all the wretchedness 'twill bring on her, 
Her, whose glad tones and joy-bestowing beauty 
Seemed doubly glad and beautiful to-day ; 
Whose little plans of happiness — 

Great Heavens ! 
It will affright her reason — drive her mad ! 
It must not be ! 

And yet, my father wronged, 
Insulted by a blow — the proud old man, 
Who fourscore years has kept his fame unblurred, 
Now to be so disgraced, and no redress ! 
My honour calls, It drowns all other cries ; 
Love's shrieking woe, and Mercy's pleading voice ! 
Thus, thus I cast them off — po^r suppliants ; 
And now, Gonzalez, for revenge and thee ! [Exit. 

Velasco challenges Gonzalez, and slays him. Izidora refuses to marry 
the Murderer of her Father ; but, constrained by the commands of the 
King, she at length consents to -wed Velasco. Julio, her Brother , 
indignant at her compliance, determines to poison Velasco at the Nup- 
tial Feast. 

The Royal Banquet- Room. — A banqueting table, superbly 
set out with vessels of wine, goblets, &c. — Enter Julio 
through the folding doors. 
Julio. How like a cautious, trembling, guilty thing, 

I glide with stealthy paces towards my purpose ! 

Can that be good, of which the outward signs 



SARGENT. 487 

Are the thiePs posture and the coward's tread ? 

Away, reflection ! 'Tis too late to waver 

When half the crime is in th' intent committed. 

Decision gives a virtue even to vice, 

And gilds its black deformity. Oh, think 

Of all the fierce incentives to the act ! 

Quick, or the occasion's gone ! 

[He advances rapidly towards the table — hesitates as 
he is about to poison the goblet, and finally, recoiling 
from the undertaking, rushes to the front of the 
Stage. 

Was I struck blind ? 

Ere I could do the deed, a shadow fell 

On all around me ; and the flashing board 

Changed to funereal blackness ! Indistinct 

Was every object to my blasted sight ; 

And the gemmed goblet faded, and the floor 

Sank in and reeled like the sea's undulations ! 

I'll not renew the attempt. 

[A burst of sprightly music is heard from a distance. 
Ah, they approach ! 

With dulcimer and cymbal, they approach. — 

Ghost of my slaughtered father ! now transfuse 

Into this frame thy immaterial essence ! 

Nerve the obedient muscles of mine arm, 

And be thine own avenger ! 

[He again approaches the goblet, and with a steady 
hand infuses the poison, fust as he is turning 
from the perpetration of the deed, Carlos and Izi- 
dora appear at the door in the background. The 
former, after a significant gesture, withdraws ; and 
the latter comes forzoard unperceived by Julio, and 



488 G OLDEN LEAVES. 

lays her hand upon him, which causes him to start 
with terror. 

It is done ! 

Izidora. What hast thou done ? 

Jul. Sister ! what have I done ? 

Izi. Ay ; there is no evasion ; for I know 
What thou hast done. Art thou my brother, Julio ? 
Undo thy foul attempt ! undo it quickly, 
Or, by my hopes of heaven, I will proclaim it ! 

Jul. Hold ! 'tis my turn to be obdurate now. 
Dare to reveal it, and the lightning's flash 
Is not more nimble than this steel shall be 
To make my vengeance certain. Hush ! they come. 

Izi. My brother ! do not — I will — stop these — 

Jul. Hush ! [He supports her. 

Enter, to music, King Ferdinand, with V el asco, followed 
by De Lerma, Favillo, Carlos, Ladies, Knights, and 
Banner-bearers, who form in the background. 
Fer. Julio ! thy prompt compliance claims our thanks. 
I bring to thee a brother. In that pledge, 
Which is the sacred symbol of forgiveness, 
Greet ye each other first. Then, trumpets, sound ! 
And let us all hail the propitious union 
In flowing cups. 

Jul. My liege, my heart goes with it : — 
And I will play the Ganymede myself. 

[He leaves Izidora, zvho stands motionless and uncon- 
scious, but gradually revives as Velasco speaks. 
Julio fills two goblets, and hands the poisoned one to 
Velasco, who replaces it on the board so abruptly as 
to excite Julio's apprehensions lest he is aware of the 
treachery. But Velasco advances and frankly offers 
him his hand. 



SARGENT. 489 

VeL Julio ! thy hand ! Thou makest me, by this act, 
Bankrupt in gratitude. I slew thy father — 
My honour forced me, while my heart revolted ! 
I will requite thee with a brother's kindness, 
Cherish thy sister with a parent's care, 
And with a lover's duty. — To our union ! 

[As Velasco lifts the goblet, Izidora utters a faint 
exclamation, which arrests his hand, 

Jul. [Aside to Izidora.] Beware ! 

VeL What says the bride ? 

Jul. 'Twas naught — the joy — 
The transport. — Come ! our union ! 

Izi. [Seizing the goblet from Velasco.] Give it me. 
[ Trembling she returns the goblet to the cup-bearer. 

Vel. What wouldst thou, Izidora ? 

hi. Taste it not. 
Thou wouldst not quaff before the bride has sipped ? 

Jul. I'll not be thwarted by thee. 

Fer. Ah ! Prevent him. 

Jul. My father aims the blow ! It is Gonzalez ! 

[As Izidora springs to meet Velasco, he falls at her feet. 

hi. [Bending over him.\ O fatal treason ! terrible re- 
venge ! 

Vel. Thy love supports me — and thy arm enfolds me — 
My ebbing sight heaves its last glance on thee ; — 
Thus dying, death is grateful. Oh, farewell ! [Dies. 

Izi. Are ye ail speechless ? I should be, were't not 
I know that I full soon shall follow him. 
Faint — very faint ! [Seizes the poisoned goblet. 

Here's that which shall revive me ! [Drains it. 

Jul. It is the poisoned goblet ! 

Izi. Not a drop 



4.90 G OLDEN LEAVES. 

Remains for thee. \Gazing upon Velasco. 

Alas, my only love ! 
The brave, the glorious, and the beautiful ! 
In death we are united — never more 
To part ! The expiation is complete. 

[She sinks gradually from the arms of her Brother 
towards Velasco, and dies. 



Cornelias fllatljettm. 
witchcraft: a tragedy. 

Ambla Bodish, a Resident of Salem, during the Persecution for Witch- 
craft in that Toivn, at the end of the Seventeenth Century, from her 
eccentric Habits, becomes one of the i( Suspected." 

Scene — Ambla's Cottage, in Salem. 
Ambla Bodish, Gideon (her Son). 

Ambla. What ! Gideon ! — returned so soon, and sad ? 

Gideon. O mother ! the fields are, somehow, very dark 
To-day, and I came back, because I had not heart 
To wander far away from you. 

Amb. Come hither to my heart, my son. 

Gid. Mother, 
Why is't I cannot live, except with you ? — 
When last I went forth with the hunters to the woods, 
Whose wandering quest kept us abroad all night, 
I slept not, nor thought of sleep : before me 
You stood, and in your eyes I lived, as though 
They looked upon me — morning took you from me ; 
I thought I would have died, finding you not. 

Amb. Be calm, my son, nor love me too much. 



MATHEWS. 491 

Gid. Too much ! — The universe can hold it not ! 
When from your hand I go, I die a death 
At every step ; you seem to hold the roof-tree 
With your arm, to hang above the fields and whiten them ; 
Nor could I through the noonday harvest toil, 
Knew I your lap would not in peace receive 
My weary head when night draws on. 

Arab. But now, no harvest asks you to be weary — 
The golden sheaves stand silent in the field; 
This is an idle day with us, Gideon, 
Between the cutting and the garnering of the grain, 
And here is something new for you to look on — 
Images of the old time which I found 
Deep in the dusky mould of Maple Hill. 

Gid. [Regarding them.] Clay images of men, 
Or more than men ? 

Amb. All that, my son : 
And as old Time cannot chatter their names, 
We'll in this idle hour new-name them ; 
Salem is worthy of such gods, and has them. 

Gid. What, graven images of men and neighbours, 
Hard by, here in the fields ? — Hurrah, mother ! 

Amb. Why, to be sure, son. 

Gid. Who's this — this one of mighty port 
And dignity ? 

Amb. That's surely the Deacon ; 
A sturdy gentleman of solemn gait, 
Whose eyes are lobster-like in gaze, whose paunch 
Is full and hungry ever, his step demure 
And confident as though he trod, always, 
On holy pavements, or pavements made so 
By his walking of them. 



492 G OLDEN LEAVES. 

Gid. And who is this ? 
Amb. The Justice, to be sure ; 
For don't you see he knits his brow at nothing ? 

Gid. Here's one with his ears cropped, his eyes bored out, 
And half a nose ! 

Amb. Little Pudeater, who runs 
With Justice Fisk — the little foolish moon 
To that great planet. Although I sport with them, 
These somehow have a power to waken 
Darkling thoughts, and are the images 
To summon forth, linked as they are with hours 
Of solitary pangs, that which should sleep ! 
[Muttering to herself.] Another at this hour should sit 

with us — 
The father of this boy — slain by these hands, 
Although there is no blood upon them. Back, 
Pale corpse, and mangled limbs, back to the grave ! 
Rise not, and walk not thus, before my sight — 
Oh, I have brought these darts upon myself! [Pause. 

Gid. Mother, you answered a question I did not ask, 
As though another were here beside ourselves. 

Amb. I'm old, you know, my son, and, shaken by the 
past, 
Talk at times, it seems, I know not to whom. 

Gid. Your hands do waver as I never saw them yet. 
[With a changed look.'] Mother, I would not have these 

dismal things 
Within the house. Who knows but wicked thoughts 
May think you worship them ? and Rumour, once born, 
Has children and great children beyond account. 

Amb. Fie, fie, Gideon ! they're better useful : 
Whene'er I have hard thoughts of Justice, Deacon, 



MATHEWS. 493 

Or the poor Pudeater, I'll think them of these 
Little counterfeits, and they shall pass away. 

Topsfield. [Calling without. 1 Gideon ! in there — Gid- 
eon — come forth the house ! 

Gid. [At the window.'] What want you ? Come in. — 
Ah, Thomas, 
Simon — there are seats within ! — I'll come to the door. 

Tops. [Without.] Do you, and bring your gun; — a 
panther's 
On the path, — quickly — we can see him yet. 
Come on and overtake us. 

Gid. My musket ! Under the ledge ! Ah, here it is. 

[Returns and takes his Mother's hand. — Voices again. 

Amb. [Gives Gideon his hat.] They shout for you 
again, Gideon ; 
Hasten, or you will lose their track. 

Gid. I linger, strangely, when I should make speed. 
Dear mother, I fear, I know not what ; 
But ere the sundown flashes in the west, 
My musket shall go back, and I sit down 
With you. 

Tops. [Without.] Gideon — Gideon! 

Gid. I come — I come ! [Exit Gideon. 

Amb. Joy, while I live, to have his young love poured 
Around me thus ! joy, to behold his looks 
Inclined on mine alone ! joy, thus to have 
His heart for mine — for mine ! But when I die, 
When I am gone, as now I strangely feel 
I soon shall be — the hour of shadow nears me — 
Oh, on what bank shall all the violets 
And the clustering tendrils of his life repose ? 
Where rest his head ? Where bloom his eager hopes ? — 



494 G OLDEN LEAVES. 

They must go out in blight and darkness, 

Without hope of light. — O aching heart ! 

Should I disclose the secret of my grief 

To Gideon, forever would I lose 

His filial love. — Peace, peace ! — away, away ! — 

Dark omens of the future, join the dread 

Phantoms of the fearful past, and let me rest. 

Circumstances increase the suspicions of the Townspeople against Amela. 
Gideon, too, is alarmed at his Mothers Behaviour ,• and Susanna, 
a young Girl beloved by him, also becomes afraid of Ambla. 

Chamber in Ambla Bodish's House. — Enter Gideon. 

Gid. Throughout the hunt they looked at me 
With strangeness, yet something of the old 
Fellowship too. What horrible surmise is this, 
That swims into my brain, and swallows reason ? 
Knew I in member, joint, or corner of the soul, 
Where lurks this boding, I would pluck it thence, 
Though life leaped after. They parted with me 
As in fear, not of my arm or malice-stroke, 
But as if they'd sever themselves apart, 
From an atmosphere of dreadfulness 

I bore about me. My mother ! — Never ! [He Jails back. 
Though all the stars turned black upon the face 
Of Night — though back the true-orbed sun should roll 
In heaven, and every evil voice cry out — 
Pd have these eye-balls seared, or not believe it ! 
Let the fear sleep, till some sufficient hand 
Shall wake it. 

Enter Ambla, followed by Deacon Gidney. 
Dea. G. I should be sorry to know your age was racked 



MATHEWS. 4.95 

With pain, and vexed with old unquietness, 
Sleep you well o' nights ? 

Amb. I am thankful for the rest 
I find; and if the other villagers 
Take what I lose, I am thankful still. 

Dea. G. You seek your bed 
Early, I hope, as doth become your age ? 

Amb. A little walk on Maple Hill, a meditation 
At the down-failing of the sun, and I 
Am lapped in sleep. 

Dea. G. Dream you much now, 
My aged friend ? We, at our age — that is, at yours — 
Sometimes forego our dreams. 

Amb. I have not dreamed a dream 
For three-and-twenty years, except awake. 

Gid. [Aside.] What means this visit 
Of this cold, gloomy, and malignant man*? 
He does not think it worth his while to notice me. 

Dea. G. Was there no vision in your sleep last night ? 
You heard of Margaret Purdy's death, at Groton ? 
Her spectre, 'tis given out, passed o'er this house 
Of yours, in a white flame, at midnight. 

Amb. An angel she, to honour so this low, 
Unworthy roof. 

Dea. G. You think well, then, of her, do you ? 
She was no praying woman, I am told ; 
Had seasons nor times of audible appeal, 

Amb. There is a silent service, Sir, I've heard 
It said, keeps up its worship at the heart. 
Although the lips be closed. 

Dea. G. What ! prayer irregular and chance-begot ! 
Sad orthodoxy ! — I, Deacon Perfect Gidney, 



496 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

An humble pattern to this lowly parish, 
Am used to have a somewhat different way : 
I snuff my nightly candle with a prayer, 
And with a steady prayer wind up my watch ; 
And go to prayer at striking of the clock — 
The great one, my learned grandfather's gift, 
In the hall ; and kindle with a slow prayer 
My morning fire. Surmise seizes on me 
Suddenly — Is all right ? When do you pray ? 
What season set ? 

Gid. [Advancing.] Who made you interrogator of this 
Aged woman, and of her inmost hours 
Disposer ? I tell you, for every evil 
Question asked, there shall a hair grow white 
Before its day, upon your scoffer's head ! [devils in you ! 

Dea. G. Whom have we here r — Young man, there's 
You threaten, do you ? We'll see, we'll see. 
[Looking sternly at Gideon.] I, Deacon Perfect Gidney, 

bid thee aroint ! 
What brimstone whiff is that beats down the chimney ? 
I am not here except of choice, and therefore 
May go whene'er I choose. Desire to hold me not ! 
If you are the devil, or the devil's messenger, 
We'll try a bout with you. He's angry, we know ; 
He meant to have the New World for his own, 
Nor let the tent-poles of God's holy roof 
Be pitched ever on its green floor. 

Gid. 'Tis you who do the devil's work most eagerly; 
Why defile you this fresh New World, this air 
That blossoms sweetly, unwooed by any 
But the blest presence of free men, and things 
As free, with droppings of your filthy hands ? 



MATHEWS. 497 

Dea. G. I know your father, boy : [Pointing down. 

Though he let loose his forty thousand 
Fiercest sons, he'll find his match, I reckon. 

Gid. What snare is this you set about 
An aged woman's way ? 

Dea. G. Ha ! ha I you feel me on your hip, Satan ! 
Thou devilish woman, and young man no less, 
Though overmastered by that aged wickedness, 
I see — 

Gid. You see an aged woman, it is true ; 
Her walk has, haply, been apart from yours, 
But not, I hope, from God's ; her lowly voice. 
Not often in the sanctuary heard, 

Has whispered, perchance, where 't has been hearkened to ; 
And when she falls, though Israel fall not 
With her, some silent place will miss her ; 
Out of these woods, and from these stillnesses, 
A power with her may pass, bearing a light away. 

Dea. G. Blasphemer ! she's not angel, or spirit 
Anointed, that you dare bespeak her thus ! 
I have command here, and should know her rank. 

Gid. Unholy man, the Holiest that sits 
Above, gives her a place, and you ! and while 
With cherubim she rides the heavenly air, 
You, beast-like, plough the earth with the nose. 

Dea. G. 'Tis very good, young man — exceedingly ! 
You boldly hold at naught all parish powers, 
And bear this woman in their face. 

Amb. I bear myself, and at the accounting 
Will answer for myself. 

Gid. And answer you for yours ! 
Dark or bright, I think the All-merciful 



4-9 8 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

May take her rightly by the hand, while you, 
Left-smitten, reeling, He sends down the abyss. 

Dea. G. O Heaven uphold 
Us, a weak, humble Deacon in Thine house ! 
The evil-doer smite, and bend the haughty 
Neck of every unbelieving Thomas ! — 
The traps are yet to be upsprung in strength : 
The toils begin to close about you. [Exit Deacon Gidney. 

Gid. He means us harm, mother, but what, I know not. 

Amb. I care not, my son. 

Enter Susanna. 

Susanna. Good-morrow, Mother Bodish. 

Gid. Why call you my mother, Mother Bodish ? 
Mistress, or aunt, or goodwife, are the names 
Alone she's borne in Salem thirty years ! 
Christen your babes anew, Susanna, 
And let the aged live in old respects. 

Sus. Your tongue is cruel-edged, to-day ; 
I had a kindness in my thought, Gideon. 

Gid. Then show it in your speeeh, nor Gideon me. 

Sus. Be soothed — be soothed ! — 

Amb. By what road came you hither, Susanna ? 

Sus. Along the chief highway. 

Amb. Who met you — any ? 

Sus. Against the orchard, Goodwife Prawl accosted me, 
And there were many other village -women 
Moving on toward the Deacon's house : 
The Deacon too passed me, just now, angrily. 

Amb. He did ? 

Sus. He did — 
But, Gideon, be not angry you with me ; 



MA THEWS. 499 

Why loses your voice the music of the spring-time 
Long ago ? why grow cold your eyes upon me ? 
Where is the little hand of childish help 
You used to give me once, dear Gideon ? 
Where the soft word and sweetly blissful look 
Of pleased encouragement, when gathered we 
Together such wandering flowers as these 
I bring you, from the sun-bank by the brook ? 

Gid. I want them not, Susanna. 

Sus. Though you'll not take them from my hand, 
They shall remain, and, in some gentler hour, 
Remind you of her that gathered them — 

[Goes to the table to deposit them. 
Who oft with you has harvested the fields 
Of all their beauty, and from the hills and plains, 
Together, gleaned with you such toys as these — 
No — no — not like to these : — I pray you,^ what's this, 
A rude, unsightly shape of hideous clay — 
What do you, Gideon, with such foolish things ? 

[Ambla, who has been ruminating, suddenly breaks 
out into violent speech and gesture. 

Amb. Is this the handiwork you have been taught, 
To scorn past time, and dally with forbiddenness ? 
Put back that image, child, or I'll do that — 
Who reverences not the Past, Hereafter 
Shall not reverence, nor hold to have had 
A present time ! 

Sus. [In alarm.~\ What have I done ? Unspeak your 
words, 
I do entreat ; spare me that curse, which might 
Undo me, to the doomsday ! I kneel and beg — 

Gid. Get up, you silly girl, and go your ways ! 



500 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

My mother was a devil when you came, 
And now she is a god. — Good mother, 
We will withdraw farther within our house, [and Ambla. 
And let her nurse her fancies by herself. [Exeunt Gideon 
Sus. A double anguish my morning steps have wrought, 
Of more and less. Nothing he has to give, 
And she too much. What mighty woe's at hand ? 
What ruin rushes on this ancient house ! 
I am bewildered and affrighted ! Relief 
I'll seek in the free air, still blue and bright 
With heaven's own light, out of the circle 
Of dark Ambla's look and arm of power. [Exit Susanna. 

Gideon determines to dissolve his connection with Susanna, in conse- 
quence of the suspicions attached to his Mother's Character. 

A Garden. — Susanna and Gideon discovered. 

Gid. Oh, pardon each ungentle word I e'er 
Have spoken, and listen to me now ! 

Sus. Gideon, you are not free to speak, 
But underneath a tyranny you live, 
Which rules the very glances of your eyes. 

Gid. I am not free to speak ? — I am and will ! 
You are the crown of all things beautiful, 
Susanna ! When glow your cheeks, the sunset 
Flashes in them ; the lovely heaven is 
In your eyes ; and in your sweet motions live 
The glad boundings of the springy deer ! 

Sus. You are constrained, by power you cannot stem, 
To speak thus now. You love me not. 

Gid. No, no, Susanna ; 'tis the free utterance 
Of a heart too long o'ercharged. Truly, 
The love I bear for you, and long have borne — 



MATHEWS. 501 

But kept concealed within the darkness 

Of my heart, — is more than mortal. It hath 

Conditions of increase, yea, speedier 

Than the free bird's wing, more large than all 

The great wood's summer growth, and deeper 

Than the infinite sea ! I know not how it grew ; 

Whether as trees do in their nature ; 

By miracle of swift surprise it came, 

As doth the wild cloud, now seen not, now filling 

All sight — blinding, bewildering, and possessing 

All the universe — full of delightful 

Agitations, with magic in them. 

Sus. Oh, there it is ! Forego this violent joy. 

Gid. I would not give its balmy pains, Susanna, 
For calmest health ; its pangs delicious, 
Troubles full of joy, wakenings electrical 
At dead of night. 

Sus. An evening shower makes morning brighter ! 
You look more cheerful than I ever knew you, 
Gideon — fairer to mine eye, 
And ruddier far ! 

Gid. I must not look so — more. 

Sus. You must, and shall, and ever will. 

Gid. [Aside.] The fatal spell still clouds her faculty ! 
She must dismiss this love, which is a weight 
To drag my mother down. — Susanna, 
Knew you what I have known, had heard what I 
Have heard, to shake pure Nature from her seat, 
And cast her powers into a fearful ecstasy, 
You would not wish to join your tender fortunes 
With mine. 

Sus. You know not that, Gideon. 



$02 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Gid. It must be so. By all the love I bear 
And plead to you — turn, elsewhere turn your love ! 
Oh, to some other give thy gentle heart ! 

Sus. Never ! — wouldst thou have me, Gideon, 
In this hour of bliss, ere it is a minute old, 
Banish so sweet a dream ? 

Gid. Leave me, Susanna ! for, each moment 
That thou tarriest here, the despotism 
Grows. Go hence, forever ! 

Sus. No more these garden paths to walk 
In happy hope ? I cannot, Gideon. 

Gid. Leave me, rash girl ! why will you linger ! 
Look not upon me — turn your face away. 

Sus. Gideon, thy heart is troubled, and I 
Will cling to thee. — Shall woman fly, now for the first 
Since Eve that elder garden walked, from him 
She loves — when sorrow frets his brow ? 

Gid. By these dark times our nature all is changed ! 
Oh, would that bitter words were needed not ! 
If e'er again this threshold thou dost cross — 
If e'er again thy face is towards me turned — 
If e'er in love thou thinkest more of me — 
(I'd spare thee this, did not another life 
Dearer than life demand the holy sacrifice) — 
May heaviest curses light upon thy brow ! 
Thy young blood grow cold, and chill thee 
In the summer's prime ! — Depart, Susanna ! 

Sus. And must I then leave thee, Gideon ? 
Gid. Depart, I say, in peace — while there is any peace 
Betwixt us. Delay not, lest I curse thee now ! 
Sus. The heaviest hour of all my life has come ! 

[Exit Susanna. 



MATHEWS. 5C3 

Gid, The very blackness I would rend, doubles 
Its folds ! Is there no hope, in man nor Heaven, 
That I must stand, dry of its blissful help, 
As if no rain of mercy ever fell ? 

Amba Lreliites to her Son the Story of her Life. 

Ambla and Gideon discovered. — Gideon, in an attitude 
of affectionate attention, kneeling at the side of Ambla. 

Ambla. It was this stony, stubborn, mountain-towering 
That kept me dumb to you. Though I beheld [pride, 
Your pale young face, and saw your troubled steps, 
It would not let me speak and tell you all ; 
But best it is that you should know it, now : 
Re-word it as I will, it shakes my soul. — 
Your father, Gideon, was a haughty man, 
Severe, yet fond. He thought that I had sinned 
Against his love, with that gay paramour, , 
Who was no more — than birds are to the tree 
They hover o'er — to me, who lived in mine 
Own thoughts, above suspicion's climbing. 
Alas !— 

Gid. Did my father ne'er reproach you 
With his doubts ? 

Amb. Not in a breath ; but in his stern, 
Calm, silent way, he called his enemy 
(As he would have him) to the fatal test : 
They fought — a word from me had saved his life ! — 
I lived with cold Disdain, counselled with her, 
In all my acts. The morning when they were 
To meet, and met, shone like a bride new dressed ; 
But never more such morning came to me — 
He fell ! 

22* 



504 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Gid. My father ? 

Amb. [Agitated.] He did. Oh, blackest hour, 
That bred a thousand and a thousand like you ! 

Gid. Be calm, dear mother ; you smote him not. 

Amb. I did ! — it was 
My silence winged, with gliding and sure death, 
The aim that never, never had been made, 
If I had willed and wished to stay it. 
Oft, oft do I recall that dreadful time, 
In all its minutes of tremendous woe : 
I see, as then, your father move — a towered man, 
Strong in the life of youth intrenched within 
His manly form — towards the bloody field ; 
I watch the hours, I count the mournful clock — 
Now, now the blow is struck ! and now I see him, 
As wide the yellow sun streams ghastly down, 
Come back, a mangled corpse, and not a man ! 
Frenzy and wildness seize upon my brain, 
And the gaunt shape of him I sacrificed 
To my most wicked pride, before me stands, 
Even now, dressed in the sanguine colours 
Of that dreadful hour ! — Shield me, shield me, Gideon, 
From the awful form ! 

Gid. 'Tis but the vision of your troubled mind : 
Still and subdue this sea-like grief, dear mother ! 
You have rendered long and ample quittance 
For your slight act of inconsiderate pride ; 
'Tis this which shakes your steps, darkens your looks 
By day, makes solitary walks and the mooned night 
Your friend ; I thought, and, trembling, feared 'twas thus 
(And yet I smile, to think 'tis this, and not 
The other) — for I alone have heard you, 






MATHEWS. 505 

When you knew it not, mutter often 

In sleep, and, even waking, drop words by chance, 

That showed a soul disturbed with such remorse. 

Amb. So caused and so allowed by me, your father's death, 
My son, has been an ever-living dagger 
To my heart, shining with dreadful light, 
Flashing the past anew, and quick withdrawn 
And quick returned, to pierce me only deeper : 
The world we lived in lost its spell for me — 
I daily moved, a loathed and loathsome thing ; 
In silence and in throngs, in all assemblages 
Of peace, or prayer, or strife, was left to stand 
Apart, feeding upon my pangs, and drinking 
Memory's bitterest seas to the bottom ! 

Gid* Pass, pass, dear mother, pass that hoar. 

Arab, I fled the city where we then were dwelling, 
Glad to abjure its hateful stones forever, 
And sped alone with you, my only hope 
And stay, in hand, smiling upon my way, 
To this lone wilderness (lone then it was, 
A greenness unspotted with a human home), 
Familiar with the woods and open fields, 
And sky and stars, and spirits, if such there be, 
That walk them all. 

Gid. Unaccompanied were you in this wild place, 
This lonesome, mournful, penitential wilderness ? 

Amb. By none, save you, who prattled only then, 
And had not risen to boyish speech : you're all 
That came with me into this world of woods, 
Are all in all to me, and ever have been. — 
In my mind's wildering pangs I often sought, 
Yet innocently, communion with the thoughts 



506 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

And fancies of the unseen world — have willed, 
Or dreamed, or known beings, that others saw not. 

Gid. I fear you, mother, yet T love — 
These things may be, and yet they may not. 

Amb. Be they or not, what deacon formal 
Or earthy magistrate shall stay or speed them ? 

Gid. O mother, put not your body in peril 
Of their chains, although your spirit walk the stars, 
Pure as their light, when first it shone ! 

Amb. Were but mine eye purged clear of all dimness 
Got of the earth — think you I could not see, 
Each hour, spirits of blest and perfect men 
Walk up and down this green before our door, 
Beneath yon woody trees, or entering at times 
This low sad shed of ours, to talk with me, 
As did the angels in the olden time ? 

Gid. I've sometimes, mother, 
Thought a fire shone in your eyes that burned up 
Space and all its clogging motes, and looked 
Whither they would. They're milder now ! 

Amb. Spirits possess the earth till men, cities, 
And habitations of gross clay, uprear thereon : 
They haunt this uncontaminated scene 
More than old regions with their towers, 
And smoky streets, and angry piles of war. 
From the old time these things have been, and shall 
They be no more ? Spirits affect, or may, 
This beautiful fair land, dewy, and new, 
And suitable, in dark or bright, to their blest ways. — 
Hark ! Gideon, hear you no trumpet sounding ? 

Gid. [In a?naze.] I hear nothing. 

Amb. The air is musical not far from this, — 



MATHEWS. 507 

No mortal playing ! 

Unstop your ears, and be of faith ! Behold, 

In ecstasy and not in pain, it vanishes 

Toward the wood, where the soft-dropping cloud 

Kisses the leaves. We'll forth and follow it. 

Gid. \_Aside,~\ I see that time and grief have swerved 
her mind ; 
Her age and troubles need my arm, and she 
Shall have it, defence against the world, and all 
The world, in its worst wickedness, can bring ! — 
I fear it, mother ! 

Amb. Fear it ? — you do not hear it yet. 
It takes its way each afternoon toward 
The hill; and I pursue it. Come, Gideon. 

Ambla, apparelled to go forth, encounters, at the door, 
Pudeater, the Officer. 

Pudeater. Ha ! ha ! I have you in the very nick, 
Just as your wings are spread to fly, Mistress. 

[Seizes Ambla. 

gideon. What mean you, Sirrah Pudeater ? 

Pud. I mean she is arrested, under warrant 
Of the worshipful Justice Fisk. 

Gid, What ! for a 

Pud. The same : I take her 
As a common witch. 

Gid. Shall I smite down 
This idiot to the ground, or will you go ? 

Pud. Strike not me, Master Gideon ; — I'm not 
To be struck, the warrant says. 

Amb. I go, Gideon ! 
But tarry you, nor step within the snare. 



508 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Tarry thou here, Gideon : observe a strict 
And temperate way within these humble walls ; 
And kindly think of all thine old mother's 
Foregone life, as of a dream. 

Gid. Could all the firmament of stars 
Remain on one side heaven, refusing 
To force their way, into the other dark, 
I might : whither you go, I go. 
Let the same bolt pierce both our hearts ! 

Amb. My son, the aspect you turn on me now — 
Less strange and ominous — makes this following 
A pleasure. — [ To Pudeater.] Lead forth ; we wait on you ! 

Gid. [Aside.] A pleasure that, cloud-like, wraps a thun- 
Within. The following of a cold hearse is sad, [der's pang 
Or a friend's footsteps flying o'er the sea, 
Ne'er to return, or him who wanders in his mind, 
Lost in the wilderness : sadder than all, 
A mother held to earth by sacred bonds 
Of love, or snatched into a realm forbidden. 
When wicked men possess the judgment-seat, 
Which shall prevail ? who knows ? — Alas ! alas ! [Exeunt. 

AmBla is brought to Trial, and is convicted of Witchcraft. She is 
sentenced to Execution. 

The place of Execution. — Ambla Bodish, with Officers 
and Deacon Gidney, Justice Fisk, Topsfield, Bray- 
brook, Pudeater, a part of the Populace, Goodwife 
Prawl, &c. Ambla standing in the centre, under a 
tree — against which a ladder leans — with the Justice 
and Deacon. When the Scene changes, the Characters 
slowly fall into position. 

Deacon G. [To the Crowd.] Stand back — and let the 
law, duly adjudged, 



MATHEWS. 509 

Seize hold upon this infamous woman ! — 
Make room, there ! nor crowd on us. Your 
Magistrates would deal justice becomingly. 

[Voices without'] We cannot hold him! 

Dea. G. What uproar's that ? 

Enter Blacksmith. 

Blacksmith. 'Tis Gideon Bodish struggles with the offi- 
cers, 
As though he had the strength of fifty men. 

Enter, violently, Gideon Bodish, followed by Officers, 
Crowd, &c. 

Gid. Away ! away ! Ye cannot keep me back, 
Though all the unchained fiends should second you ! 
With her I'll die — fixed by her side, immovably. 
[Going to his Mother.] Fear not, mother — they shall not 

part us ; 
I'll be a rock 'gainst which this angry surf 
Of men shall dash and fall to nothingness. 

Amb. My son, enrage them not — 
Draw not their wrath on thee : here let it fall ; 
My aged head is ready for the blow — 
Oh, stay it not, for fear it crush thee too ! 
My child, I feel the icy hand of Death 
Is on my heart : I soon shall be beyond 
Their cruel power. 

Dea G. Do you obstruct the law ? — Officers, go on 
To instant execution ! If he bar you, 
Cut him down ! 

Gid. Ay, cut mc down, and her ! tear us in pieces — 
Trample beneath your feet with demon power, 



510 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

And rack us as you will, in baffled hate — 
She shall not die the felon's tainted death ! 
Strike — strike us both, as rooted here we stand ! 
Spectres have scared you — ye are spectres ! seem 
Men, and are not men. More cruel are ye, 
In your rage, than witch-wielded whips of iron ; 
In your soulless faces, more hideous far 
Than clay images, swarthy and magical, 
And aisles of apparitioned murderers ! — 
See you, — a mother, here, most pure, most holy, 
And here a son, whose heart heaves its red bank 
Against your coming- — advance upon us ! 
Here's merely age and youth, against you all : 
A verdict of our own we make, a death 
To die, above your blind and bigot law ! 

Dea. G. Kill him, if he dare resist ! Mad youth, 
Hold off, or the black doom shall smite your head 
With hers ! 

Gid. E'en in this hour of dreadest woe, I laugh at you ! 
We are prepared to fall, but not as you 
Would have us. She shall not die a witch's 
Death ; no hangman's infamous hand shall fret 
Away her holy life. She is no witch, 
But my dear mother still, to whom is due 
All this arm's strength. 

Black. Down with Gideon Bodish ! down with him ! 

Enter Jarvis Dane. 

Jarvis. Ay, down with him ! He has earned it well : 
The wronged Susanna's dead, within this hour, 
By her own frenzied hand, on Maple Hill. 
He was the damned cause of her sad fate ! 



MRS. RITCHIE. 511 

I looked upon her pale young corpse ; I swore 
I'd have revenge — and thus I seek it ! 

Carpenter. Spare him no longer; down with him ! 

[The Populace, with Jarvis Dane, rusk upon Gideon, 

who, defending himself and Ambla, is overpowered, 

and falls, pierced by the sword of Dane. With a 

cry of alarm, Ambla sinks on her knees by the side 

of Gideon. 

Amb. O God ! they've slain my boy, my hope, my all, 

The darling of my age ! [ Throws herself on the body. 

Dea. G. Lift you the woman from her dead son : let 
The law hold on its course. 

[ They raise Ambla ; her head falls on her breast. 
Topsjield. The work is done : she is beyond the law. 
Gid. [Reviving.] Mother ! where art thou, mother ? — 
O Heaven, she's dead ! Raise me, and let, once more, 
My fading lips press hers, once more, once more — [Dies. 



^Inna €ora flloumtt (fllva. Uttcfjte). 

ARMAND ; OR, THE PEER AND THE PEASANT. 

Blanche, a Daughter of the Duke de Richelieu, by a secret Mar- 
riage^ is brought up in privacy , as the reputed Kinsivcman of Ba- 
bette, a Peasant. Here she is seen by Louis XV. of France, ivho 
pursues her ivith dishonourable intentions. Blanche, unconscious of 
her real Parentage, has bestowed her affections on Armand, a young 
Peasant. Blanche, engaging in all the sports of the Villagers y ivith 
ivhcm she has been associated from infancy, is chosen " Queen of 
May." 

Blanche, Babette. 
Babette. Blanche ! Blanche ! — Is Blanche coming ? 



J12 G OLDEN LEAVES. 

Enter Blanche. 

Blanche. Yes, dame, here is Blanche. 

Bab. Good child ! good child ! 

Blan. Nay, dame, pay homage to our majesty. 
Pm chosen queen, dear dame — the Queen of May ! 
You do not smile : prithee-, what serious thought 
Has cast its grave reflection on thy face ? 

Bab. I was thinking how beautiful a crown — a real crown, 
a crown of gold and jewels — would look upon your head. 

Blan. A crown ? Why, you are dreaming, dame, at 
mid-day ! 

Bab. And if I am, there's something, sometimes, in some 
dreams. But I say nothing — only, wouldn't you like to 
dream of wearing such a crown ? 

Blan. No, in good sooth, not I ! This woven band 
Of dewy wild-flowers lightlier girds my head, 
And circles in its ring but happy thoughts. — 
Then, for my king — whom think you I have chosen ? 

Bab. Wait till yon see the King himself. 

Blan. Has he a nobler mien, a loftier look, 
A braver, truer, purer heart than Armand ? 

Bab. Have you forgotten the cavalier who walked with 
us in the gardens of Versailles ? 

Blan. No, I remember him — 'twas but last night. 

Bab. Then listen : what w r ould you say if he were the 
King, the true King — Louis XV., the King of France? 
Oh, dear ! what would you say to that ? 

Blan. Why, if he were the King — in truth, the King — 
I could but say that wayward Nature played 
On Fortune's favourite a most idle trick, 
While to the humble artisan she gave 
The aspect, soul, and bearing of a king. 



MRS. RITCHIE. 513 

Bab. Oh, dear ! oh, dear ! what a young traitor ! It's 
very fine ta]k ; yet, for all that, there's a great difference 
between your Armand and the King — I mean the cavalier. 

Blan. I grant you that, dear dame — difference indeed ! 
How different seemed, in each, like attributes ! 
The lightness of the cavalier to me 
Seemed senseless levity, while Armand's mirth 
Is the o'erflowing gladness of a heart 
At ease. Each had his separate pride : one pride, 
The scorn that narrow minds from narrower minds 
Inherit ; but our Armand's pride looks down 
In scorn upon mean acts alone, disdains 
But falsehood, spurns but vice, rebels against 
Injustice only, while he arrogates 
No merit to his virtues ! Men may bow 
The knee to royalty, but there's a more 
Enduring and more sacred homage all 
Must feel for what is better than themselves. 

Bab. How these young ones talk, to be * sure ! You'll 
sing a new burden to your song before long. You must 
think no more of Armand. 

Blan. What ! think no more of Armand ? Is he not 
The very centre of my thoughts, round which 
All feelings and all hopes alike revolve, 
As planets circle round their sun ? But, dame — 
Thou dear, mysterious, and oracular dame — 
What boding dreams have mocked you through the night ? 
Or what portentous omens have you seen? 
Nay, speak ; prithee, what has befallen thee ? 

Bab. Oh, don't ask me — I say nothing. You know 
I never talk. 

[Villagers without^ Where is our queen, our queen? 



514 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Bring us our queen ! [Armand and Villagers appear 

at window \ 

Richelieu discovers the King's designs on his Daughter, and, as the 
most certain method to save her, commissions Babette to administer 
a powerful Opiate to Blanche, ivhich shall produce a seeming Death. 
This is done as the Lovers are preparing to join the May-day Festival. 

The Village Green. — A Maypole in the centre. 
Armand, Blanche, and Villagers. 

Arm. Ay, for a dance make ready, lads and lasses, 
And be your hearts as light as are your feet, 
In honour of the May. [Blanche puts her hand to her 

head, and appears to be ill. 
Blanche, you are ill ! 
Your eyes are heavy, and your cheek how pale ! 

Blan. Oh, no, no, Armand ; I am well — quite well. 
And yet I think my very happiness 
Oppresses me ; a faintness steals upon 
My yielding sense, as if it were the languor 
Of a content so perfect, it could wish 
For nothing on this earth it hath not now, 
But on the far-off future shuts its eyes. 

Arm. Our future, Blanche ? It must indeed be bright, 
To vie in promise with the present joy ! 
We live in that which is, and so defy 
What may be. Let the unknown future bring 
Us years — long years of unimagined woe — 
It cannot steal the lustre from these hours. . . . 
Come, let us dance, my queen, 
To quicken in thy veins the timid blood, 
And stain these lilies with a healthier red. — 
Jacot, Etienne, are you not ready yet ? 



MBS. RITCHIE. 5 I 5 

Jac. Most excellent and worthy sovereigns ! we but 
wait your pleasure. 

Arm. Now, Blanche, for thy light foot. — Come, lads, a 
dance ! 

[Maypole dance, with garlands. Towards the close, 
Blanche appears to grow fatigued, and falls sud- 
denly in Armand's arms, as if fainting. 

Blan. Armand, I cannot — I am weary — stay — 

Arm. Thou weary, Blanche, whose airy foot were match 
For the blithe humming-bird's untiring wing ? 
Great Heaven ! how pale thou art ! thou tremblest, too ! 

Blan. 'Tis only weariness — so — let me rest. [Falls. 

My head is strangely heavy, and before 
My eyes a floating vapour spreads itself. 
Armand, I scarce can see thee. Art thou there ? 

Arm. Blanche ! Blanche ! my own, my only love ! — 

Heaven ! she grows more ghastly white. — Etienne ! 
Quick, fly for help ! — and, Jaqueline, bring Babette ! 

[Exeunt Jaqueline and Etienne. 
How cold thou art ! Speak to me, Blanche ! thou hearest me ! 
Tell me thou hearest me ! 
Blan. Yes, Armand, yes, 

1 hear thee, my beloved, yet I feel — 
That we are parting — death — 

Arm. We cannot part ! 
This is not death ! — no, no, we will not part ! [will 1 

Blan. Nay, Armand, war not thou with Heaven's high 
Death cannot break the bond that knits our souls. 
Shall I not be thy bride — there — where I go 
To wait thee ? For a while we needs must part ; 
Death's icy ringer chills and clogs my blood — 
Like frost it falls upon my heavy eyes, 



516 G OLDEN LEAVES. 

And yet I seem to see ! A luminous mist 
Envelops all things round me; through its veil 
A threshold paved with light appears — beyond, 
A land of flowers ; — and now bright forms in robes 
Of radiant white are flitting round me — ah ! 
They bear me from thee. Armand, O Armand ! 
I cannot see thee, though I feel thine arms 
Girdle my frozen limbs ! 

Arm. Thou wilt not leave me — 
Distract me not; but once more speak — let me 
Once more drink in the music of thy voice ! 
Speak to me ! Give me one last proof of love. 

Blan. Armand — I do — this — [Raises herself with an 
effort, feebly kisses him, and sinks back apparently dead. 

Arm. 'Twas her first kiss ! 
Thou pitying Heaven, let it not be her last ! 
She is not dead ! — Dost thou not hear me, Blanche ? — 
No, no, she is not dead ! It were to lose 
The sun that warms with life — to lose the light 
That tells the presence of that sun ; it were 
To lose the air we breathe, to lose thee, Blanche ! 
I stifle at the thought ! My life's sole light 
Is endless darkness now. O Blanche, my Blanche ! 
My earth and heaven ! all peace, all joys, all dreams, 
All blessings, and all hopes, are gone with thee ! 

[Flings himself upon the ground beside Blanche. 

The opiate ivorks its intended effects, and Blanche is in appearance 
dead, and is laid out for her Funeral. 

A Chamber in Dame Babette's Cottage. — In the centre 
a Couch, upon which Blanche is extended, apparently 
dead. 



MRS. RITCHIE. 517 

Arm. Jaqueline — my friends — grant what I ask : 
Leave me awhile alone with her. You loved her well, 
But I — I — [Bursts into tears. 

Jaq. Our Blanche never denied a request of yours, 
Armand ; nor will we, who loved her so dearly, do so. 

[Exit slowly and sorrowfully, followed 
by all the Maidens. 

Arm. [After gazing awhile on Blanche.] O Blanche ! 
my own — though lost — still, still my own ! 
A little while I yet may gaze on thee, 
And in the treasury of my soul may store 
The memory of each stiffening lineament 
Where beauty lingers still. It cannot be ! 
Shall those soft eyes no more look into mine, 
Nor veil themselves when with too bold a joy 
I gazed within their azure depths ? Shall love, 
With its aurora, tint thy cheek no more ? , 
The low, glad music of thy voice, no more 
Sunder those gentle lips with words that fell 
Like blessings on the ears that took them in ? 
My Blanche ! my other and my better self! 
How weary seems the path I thought to climb, 
Thy hand in mine, thy smile to light me on, 
Thy sunny presence to make glad each step ! 
Alone life's burden must be borne — alone 
The struggling heart crush underneath its weight ! 
A holy smile yet hovers on thy face, 
As though the angels, when they summoned thee, 
One golden glimpse of Paradise revealed, 
And left that happy print upon thy lip. 
No, no ! thou art not lost — we are not parted ! 
For, heavenward as my tearful eyes I turn, 



5 1 8 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

A radiant vision meets them there, and bids 
Me guard my soul, unsullied by a deed 
That could divide us in that land of joy ! 
My heart hath but one wish — my life one hope- 
All time one joy — that of rejoining thee ! 

Blanche recovers from her trance ,• and Richelieu, after discovering 
his relationship to her, conveys her to Paris, where she is acknowl- 
edged as his Daughter. — Five years elapse, during ivhich time 
Armand has risen to eminence as the King's Favourite, and to the 
rank of Colonel and Aide-de-camp to the Duke de Villiers. Riche- 
lieu, fearing that Blanche may be induced to marry Armand, 
proposes to her a noble match, fitted to her now dignified station. 

Blanche, Richelieu. 

Blanche. My lord duke ! [Pauses and looks at htm, 
Nay, my father ! can I choose 
But call thee by that name ? though in thy face 
Too little of a father's fondness greets me. 

Richelieu. Yield thou the meet obedience of a child, 
And all a father's fondness will requite it. 

Blan. Command thou what a child's pure heart must leap 
To execute, and I will yield a child's 
Obedience, with the meekness of a child. 

Rich. What I have done was for thy surest good ; 
Ay, for thy soul's best good ! 

Blan. My soul's best good ? 
Was't for my soul's best good my tongue should mock 
The consecrated altar with a lie ? 
Was't for my soul's best good my lips should breathe 
A vow my heart refused ? the holy oath 
Which gave the thought, the hope, the love to Heaven, 
Which were no longer mine to give ! 



MBS. RITCHIE. 519 

Rick. Daughter ! 
Thy will opposed to mine is powerless ! 

Blan. My father, tempt me not to evil ; think 
Before you act ! Young blood is warm, young heads 
Are rash ; young hearts, convulsed like mine, are stubborn ! 
When love, the soul's first love and last — the love 
No absence changes, and which time and sorrow 
Chastise to strengthen — is too fiercely curbed, 
Its passion breaks all other ties, defies 
All chances and all perils, leaps all barriers 
That hold or part it from its idol : or, 
Dragged by a chain too mighty to the earth, 
The iron eats its slow and silent way 
Into the soul ; and then — we die — my father ! 

Rich. I know thy sex too well, girl, at its tears 
Or wrath to change my purpose. Woman's grief 
Is wind and rain one summer hour will end. 

Blan. And canst thou thus the name of woman scorn, 
Her holy mission lightly look upon, 
Nor think that thy first sighs were soothed by her ? 
Thy first tears kissed away by woman's lips ; 
Thy first prayer taught thee at a woman's knee ; 
Thy childhood's blessings showered from woman's hand ; 
Thy manhood brightened by her watching smile ? 
Thy age must in her tenderness find prop ; 
And life's last murmurs may perchance burst forth 
Where they began — upon a woman's breast. 

Rick. I nor deny her virtues, nor her power 
To gild them with her tongue. But one word more 
Of Armand. Woman may be constant — when 
Was man ? What wouldst thou think, how wouldst thou act, 
If Armand's troth were plighted to another ? 
23 



520 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Blan. Another ! Armand love and Armand wed 
Another ? No ! the present could not thus 
Belie the past ! Yet is it true he thought — 
Still thinks me dead ; but death could only part, 
Not disunite us ! Armand love another ? 

wretch, to wrong his memory with the thought ! 
Armand has not forgotten me. 'Tis false ! 

Tell me 'tis false ! and for the life you give 
Me back, I'll bless thee more than for the life 

1 had at first from thee. 

Rich. In calmer tone 
One question I would have thee answer. Listen : 
If I could give thee proof unquestionable, 
Wouldst thou the cloister seek of thy free will? 

Blan. I would. 

Rich. Swear that thou wilt ! 

Blan. There needs no oath. 
I know not falsehood, father. 

Rich. I believe thee. 
To-night I will return — remember thou 
Thy words — to-night ! [Exit. 

Blan. Armand ! was it for this 
For five long years I hoped — for this I bore 
With patient trust the ills Fate heaped upon me ? 
For this I would not wrong thee by a doubt ? 
All — all — for this — this hour of agony ! [Sinks weeping 
' upon a couch, and, after a pause, rises calmly. 
Let me not murmur at Thy high decrees, 
All-wise, all-watching, and all-guarding Heaven ! 
I know no withered leaflet falls to earth, 
No blade of grass bursts from its sheath of green, 
No grain of sand is swallowed by the wave, 



MRS. RITGHIE. yil 

Unnoted by that ruling Providence 

That guides the universe, yet stoops to clothe 

The flower with beauty, and from seeming ills 

Works out our truest, most enduring good ! 

Oh, then, while grass and sand and leaf are cared for, 

How shall a mortal doubt Thy guardianship ! — 

Then break not, heart! the will of Heaven be thine ! 

To escape the Marriage proposed by her Father, Blanche seeks the. 
protection of the King, ivho recognizees her. He places her under 
the care of the Duchess de Rohan, hoping in time to ivicld her to 
his purpose. 

A sumptuous Apartment in the Ckdteau of the Duke de 

Rohan. — Enter Blanche, splendidly attired, followed 

by Jaqueline. 

jfaq. Dear Mam'selle Blanche, to think that I should 
have found you at last, and through that beautiful little page ! 

Blan. But, Armand ! O my best Jaqueline, my friend ! 
Thou hast seen Armand — and he knows I live — 
He spoke of me as in our early days — 

Jaq. Ay, that he did, Mam'selle, and I am sure he 
loves you as much as ever. 

Blan. Bless thee, Jaqueline ! [Embracing her fervently.] 
Oh, how one hour of joy 
Can brighten a whole age of agony ! 
The weary years that sundered us so long 
Have vanished ; every pang that wrung my soul 
Is blotted out from memory ! The past 
Is one of sunbeam only, and the future 
Seems something brighter still. I am too blest ! 

Jaq. So will Monsieur Armand be ; but you will scarcely 
know him, he looks so altered, for he is a great soldier now : 
and I think he will hardly know you in this grand dress. 



522 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Blan. They said the king would visit me to-day, 
And to receive him decked me in these robes. 

Jaq. Would you not like me to seek Monsieur Armand ? 
Mam'selle Blanche ? 

Blan. Do, if thou canst, my kind Jaqueline ! 

Jaq. Oh, I'll find him if he's within the walls of Paris, 
be sure of that. I do so like to bring lovers together ! 

[Exit. 

Blan. What thronging thoughts in quick succession chase 
Each other through my brain ! I pace these halls 
As one who walks them in a dream ; and Fear 
By turns convulses every trembling limb ; 
By turns thine azure eyes, immortal Hope ! 
In visioned beauty smile upon my doubts ; 
While in thy cheating glass, whose magic brings 
The wished-for object near, my spell-bound sight 
Sees Armand only ! Thus — 

Enter the King. 

King. My Blanche ! [Pauses and looks at her.] Why, 
this is well : this rich attire 
Befits thy beauty royally — the emblem 
Of greater change that waits thee ! 

Blan. 'Twas the duchess 
That willed it, and not I, my liege. 

King. Thy tone, 
Fair Blanche, is grave, yet should no sadness mar 
Its music. Now thy life shall be one pageant 
Of long delight! thine every hour a joy 
Newer and gladder, and thine every wish 
Fulfilment. 

Blan. Sire, I have but one : restore 



MRS. RITCHIE. 523 

Me to my childhood's home — to him, without 
Whose presence even that home were joyless. 

King, A fate more bright awaits thee : hast thou not 
Divined it ? Knowest thou not thou art beloved ? 

Blan. I do, my liege. 

King. And by thy king ? 

Blan. O Heaven ! 

King. Fair Blanche, look not like the startled fawn 
By friendly echoes frighted. Listen, love : 
A splendid fate its golden page unrolls 
Before thee. In our court the proudest place 
Is thine. The queen shall yield thee her protection ; 
All men shall bow to her whom Louis loves. 

Blan. Just Heaven ! can such things be ? or doth some 
demon 
Whisper these horrors in my dreaming ear ? 

King. Sweet Blanche, the splendours that I proffer — 

Blan. Peace, 
Thou king, by passions vile unkinged ! Thy words 
Have scorched my brain, and should have seared thy lips 
In passing them. My liege, my liege, was it 
A kingly deed to snare a being helpless 
And friendless — young as I — thus to profane 
Her ears, and seek by virtue of thy crown 
To rob her of the brightest diadem 
That can encircle woman's brow ? 

King. Nay, Blanche, 
Mar not thy beauty with this frigid bearing; 
Frowns do not suit those gentle eyes, nor fierceness 
Thy timid nature. Weak thou art — 

Blan. Not weak, 
My liege, when roused by insult and by wrong ! 



524 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

I tell thee, haughty king, presumptuous man ! 
That, like the unshorn locks the Nazarene 
Vowed to his God, the purity of woman 
Becomes at once her glory and her might ! 

King. Ah, Blanche ! and is there no excuse for love ? 

Bla?i. Thy love is but self-love! that first and worst 
Of passions — poisoned spring of every crime — 
Which hath no attribute of perfect love. 

King, This to thy king ? 

Blan. Art kingly in thy deeds ? 
The star that shines so brightly on thy breast 
Is worthless if it shed no light within. 
The throne that lifts thee o'er thy fellow-men 
Should teach the virtues which alone can raise 
Thee 'bove them. 

King. At thy feet let me implore — 

Blan. Stand off ! approach me not ! 

King. Thou fearest me, then ? 

Blan. Fear thee ? Danger should be where fear is — I 
See none. [her. 

King. Woman ! thou shalt not brave me thus ! [Seizes 
No human power can save thee — thou art mine ! 
What are thy feeble struggles in my grasp ? [me ! 

Blan. [Sinking on her knees. ,] Spare me, my liege, spare 

King. It is thy turn 
To sue, and all in vain ! Thou hast forgot 
That I am king, and thou hast no protector ! 

Blan. [Starting up.~\ I have ! I have ! — One who for- 
sakes me not — 
One whom thou darest not brave ! Unloose thy hold, 
Or dread His fury ! Heaven protects me still ! 

[ The King, awed by her manner, releases her. 



BOKER. 525 

Thou art my sovereign ; I a friendless subject — 

I woman, and thou man ! My helplessness 

Was of itself a claim to thy protection — 

A claim thou hast rejected. Answer, king ! 

Hast thou done right ? Man, was it well to use 

Thy strength against my weakness ? Thou art dumb ! 

Thou canst not answer ! King of France, I scorn thee ! 

[Exit. 
King. Why should I shrink from one so powerless ? 
And can it be that Virtue's presence awes 
Me thus ? — that Virtue which no weapon needs 
Except its own resistless dignity ! 

She speaks — I'm hushed ; she spurns me, and I cower ; 
She leaves me, and I dare not follow her ! 

Armand, having learned that Blanche lives, and discovering her re- 
treat, here enters. A violent scene ensues between him and the King, 
ivhich ends in his arrest. The King afterward relents, and Armand 
and Blanche are restored to each other. 



(&tox%t §. Boker. 

THE betrothal: a play. 

The Marquis di Tiburzzi, a decayed Nobleman, is deeply indebted to 
the rich Merchant Marsio. To release himself from this indebted- 
ness, and to restore his fallen fortunes, he is urged to give his Daugh- 
ter Costanza in marriage to Marsio, ivho seeks her hand. 

Marquis and Marchioness di Tiburzzi. 
Marquis. Why urge forever Marsio's rich estate ? 
Wealth is not sovereign. Should his money sprout, 
And yield a thousand-fold, it could not change 



526 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Its master's nature. In the glare of gold 
Unnumbered blemishes oft come to light, 
That had been better hidden in beggar's rags. 

Marchioness, What faults has he ? 

Marq. It matters not. 

March. Why not ? 

Marq. If I dislike the man, the end is gained 
Without a summing of antipathies. 

March. But should Costanza love him ? 

Marq. Bless me, madam ! 
Am I an oracle ? Your questions reach 
Beyond my thinking. 

March. Stranger things have been. 
The maids of Greece, for all their dainty tastes, 
Gambolled with Satyrs. Men can never know 
The shifting fancies of a woman's heart. 
Some love the outer, some the inner man, 
And some the garniture which fortune gives ; 
Some love to rule, others to be enslaved ; 
Some love for pity, some affect the bold ; 
Some on entreaty, others from sheer spite 
And sturdy opposition, will consume 
With threefold fire. This slender bodkin's point 
Is ample basis for a woman's love. 

Marq. Not for Costanza's. Do not wrong our daughter 
With empty fables, nor impute to her 
The melting weakness of all womankind. 
If she should love — Poh ! poh ! I squander breath ; 
The thought is monstrous. 

March. Pray, what see you, Sir, 
In Signore Marsio — think him what you may — 
To banish him beyond the pale of love ? 



BOKER. 527 

He is not handsome ! Well, and what of that ? 
These girls have apes for playthings. Cannot talk ? 
She'll slit his tongue, and busy her for hours 
With her new human magpie. Here's a husband 
To banish Maltese cats and singing-birds ! 
What if she love 5 

Marq. Her love would sanctify 
More vice than Marsio's little soul can hold. — 
But this is idle. 

March. Now, what do you mean ? 
First, Marsio's blemishes ; next, your dislikes ; 
Then, Marsio's vices, and his little soul ! 
Why do you hate him ? 

Marq. Hate is not the word : 
I would not choose him for my daughter's husband. 
First, his mean birth. — 

March. Ho ! pause we at his birth. 
Did his low birth beget his character ? 
I hold you, Sir, he is so nobly minded 
That he will pick an empress for his dam, 
If you give choice. 

Marq. Like still engenders like : 
'Tis Nature's law. The rugged mountain horse 
Breeds not the silk-skinned barb ; the shaggy cur 
Litters no fine-limbed greyhounds. It may take 
Whole ages of ancestral blood, to crown 
A long-drawn race with one true gentleman. 
Think you his peddling stock can shape a mate 
For her whose fathers, at great Caesar's voice, 
Out-flew the conquering eagles ? 

March. There it is ! 
Caesar and all his legions ! We have stood 



528 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

A hungry siege from him for many a day. 
Would he had strangled at his birth, 
With all his captains ! 

Marq. Why this argument ? 
I have heard ten thousand, in my time, yet never 
Knew one wry notion straightened by them all. 
What would you ? 

March. Why not ask me that before 
The matter smothered in the argument ? 

Marq. Speak ; I attend you. 

March. Should Costanza's eyes 
Have found some merit, unobserved by you, 
In Signore Marsio — should it so have wrought 
Upon her woman's fancy as to gain, 
In Caesar's spite, that precious heart of hers — 
Would you oppose her choice ? 

Marq. Oppose her choice ! 
Why, you amaze me ! Have you seen good grounds 
For such a question ? 

March. I have seen enough. 
I have observed kind looks from Marsio's eyes 
By echoing blushes answered from her cheeks ; 
I have — Lord, Lord ! what have I not observed ? — 
Sufficient to have bred a plague of love, 
If love were catching. ' 

Marq. This is very strange. 

March. No ; 'tis as old as Adam. Maids will love, 
And fathers will not see it. From these signs, 
Knowing our daughter's happiness might hang 
Upon your voice, I would forestall her grief, 
By timely checks, ere love has grown a habit ; 
Or, should you wish, confirm her doubting heart 
By your full sanction. 



BOKER. 529 

Marq. Wonderful indeed ! 
She fancy Marsio ! Had I been asked, 
I'd said she shunned him. 

March. No unusual trick 
Of love-sick girls. — But here Costanza comes. 
Leave her to me ; nay — if you question her, 
You'll scorch her words in blushes. 

Marq. As you will. 
You are wrong, believe me. She has ever borne 
So plain a heart to me, so dutiful, 
So zealous to fulfil my wish as never 
To question of its justice — yet such acts 
Performing not with the cold hand of duty, 
But with the fiery eagerness of love — 
That I shall feel some twinge of jealousy, 
If she has ousted me from my fair seat, 
Henceforth a stranger's, without common- notice. 
Question, but do not vex her. I would rather 
Your keen suspicion had o'ershot its mark, 
Than that my daughter should have wasted love 
Upon this — this — 

March. Noble, thrice noble man ; 
Half deified by her subliming love ! 

Marq. I have no heart for jesting. [Exit 

March. Nor for acting : 
Your feeble nature shifts the deed on me. 

Enter Costanza. 

Costanza. Where went my father ? 

March. To concoct some scheme 
About a penny-worth of musty bread. 
It takes more work, to live this starving way, 



530 G OLDEN LEAVES. 

Than would be used in earning us a fortune. 
But we are noble, very noble, daughter; 
We have some centuries of rich, proud blood, 
On which we live, and therefore need not labour. 
We feed, like fleshy men, upon our fat, — 
Self-eating cannibals. 

Cos. Fasting has its mirth, 
Feasting its sorrow. 

March. Ay, ay ; much the mirth 
We see the death's head grinning. 

Cos. True, my mother ; 
Death has a whisper in the maddest mirth 
Of us poor mortals. 

March. You are gloomy, child. 

Cos. No more than usual. 'Tis a gloomy thing 
To see a father, so deserving love, 
Bowed with a load of vulgar petty cares — 
Too mean to tax the housewife of a hind — 
That nip and pinch him into actual life, 
Giving his aching mind no dreaming pause 
'Twixt day and day. 

March. Of all disgusting things, 
Commend me to our old familiar friend, 
Proud Poverty ! 

Cos. Would I could lighten it ! 

March. And so you can. 

Cos. I ! how ? 

March. I trow, my daughter, 
You'll be no victim, no burnt-offering, 
No chattel, traded for your father's peace : 
No ; let us starve, drown, hang — why, what care you ? 
You have a heart, forsooth, a virgin heart, 



BOKER. 531 

Not to be hung on matrimonial shambles ! 
In faith, you are right. 

Cos. What is your purpose, mother ? 

March. There's Signore Marsio ; do you fancy him ? 

Cos. I never weighed my feelings for him. 

March. No? 
But he loves you. 

Cos. For that I owe him thanks. 

March. Now — do you mark me ? — should you marry him, 
We are rich at once. 

Cos. That never crossed my mind. 

March. It has ours. 

Cos. "Ours"? 

March. Your father's and my own. 

Cos. My father spoke of this ? 

March. Just ere he left. 

Cos. Does he desire me to wed Marsio ? 

March. You know your father far too well for that. 
He would not have you wed for his sake only ; 
Would not persuade you, press you, and so forth. 
With such spasmodic eagerness, with such 
A trembling lip, and clutching of the hands, 
He says these things, that I, who know his ways, 
With half a thought can fathom his desire. 

Cos. Which is ? — 

March. That we should want no longer. 

Cos. How ! 
Wed Marsio ? 

March. Not unless with your consent. 
Well, would you try it ? Tell your father, then, 
You love rich Marsio, whose countless wealth 
Can bribe his sorrow, ease his shaking mind, 



532 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

And make his days lapse calmly to their end — 
Marsio, whose golden finger puts to flight 
Duns, bailiffs, tradesmen, all the brood of want, 
And makes a jest of every former grief 
To talk of in foul weather. Nay, my child, 
Breathe not a word of this : say simply thus — 
" I love good Marsio ; I would be his wife." 
You'll see the issue. 

Cos. Signore Marsio stands 
Far better with my father than I thought. 
Doubtless there is some good in Marsio — 
In Marsio — in Marsio — 

March. Well, well ! 
Why do you dwell upon his name ? 

Cos. There seems 
A strangeness in it, I ne'er marked before. 

March. You will attempt this little loving ruse ? 

Cos. Mother, I dare not tamper with the love 
My father bears me. 

March. Poh ! 'tis but a trial. 
You need not marry Marsio, for all. 

Cos. This I will say : if to my father's mind 
Marsio appear a proper husband for me, 
And Signore Marsio should incline to me, 
I will accept him. 

March. Bravely spoken, child ! 
I know you do this for your father's sake ; 
And 'tis a beautiful, most saint-like act, 
On which the angels smile. May Heaven reward you !- 
Then, in Italy, marrying is one thing, 
Loving is another. 

Cos. What did you say ? 



BOKER. 533 

March. You will find out ere long. But, hark, Cos- 
tanza ! 
If you are resolute, let every action, 
Which falls beneath your father's eyes, appear 
Full of kind thoughts for Signore Marsio. 

Cos. I feel but kindly towards him. O, my mother, 
If he, or any man — a clown — a fool — 
More hideous than the nightmare, crueller than 
The ragged tooth of Famine — 

March. Tut, tut ! daughter ; 
Marsio is none of these. 

Cos. I hope not, madam. 
Doubtless, I'll learn to love him very soon. 
It seems to me, duty would tutor love, 
At the first moment my poor father smiled. 
Marsio must know the terms. 

March. What need of that ? 
When did Love ever chaffer about terms ? 
Fll tell him, if 'twill ease you. 

Cos. Let us go. 
My father's word must sanction this high treason 
Against the sweet dominion of god Love. — 
You see I am merry, mother ; am I not ? 

March. Yes ; very merry. 

Cos. As we go along, 
Give me a catalogue of all our ills. 
Tell o'er my father's sufferings ; then rehearse 
The royal qualities of Marsio's gold. 
How do you think my father's face would look 
With one bright smile upon it ? Do you know, 
'Tis a long, dreary age since I beheld 
What you might call a smile upon his face ? 



534 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

I need to hear these things. Think you this marriage 
Would be no sin against my better nature ? 

March. Heaven counsels filial love, 

Cos. Yes ; you shall feast, 
And wear gay clothes, and build our shattered house, 
And brush the cobwebs from our ancestry, — 
That seem to suffer like decay with us, — 
And there shall be no name in Italy 
Prouder than the Tiburzzi ! Did you think, 
When you first saw me lying in my cradle, 
An impotent, cross bantling, that one day 
Your poor Costanza could do all these things ? 
I know you did not — ha ! ha ! [Laughing.'] Woe is me ! 
Tears are close neighbours to such mirth as mine. [Exeunt. 

Marsio, instructed by the Marchioness, ivaits upon Tiburzzi, to accept 
the hand of Costanza. 

Enter Marsio. 
Marsio. If I know money — Heaven knows I should — 
They must come to it. Needy, needy, say you ? 
I have known the needy murder for a ducat : 
Lo ! here are millions ; and but for a name. 
A very ancient, very noble name, 
I grant; but somewhat damaged in the keeping. — 
Easily patched, however, easily patched with gold. 
Join Marsio's riches to Tiburzzi's name, 
And who can stand against them ? But the name, 
Ungilt and naked, is an empty noise, 
Which Marsio's gold — Marsio's hard, solid gold — 
As well can purchase in the daily market 
Where parents vend their marriageable wares. 
Why should I doubt ? There's nothing like a heart 



BOKER. 535 

To chaffer for. I never bought a heart. 

Men say I want one. Ha ! ha ! how they lie ! [Laughing. 

'Tis a great rock on which all commerce wrecks. 

There is no rival, no keen moneyed man, 

To weigh his scrapings gainst my topmost bid ; 

So says the Marchioness — O, pardon me — 

Our mother, I should say ; though ne'ertheless 

A marchioness for all that, Costanza dear. — 

Conny, and Con, and Stanza, when you please me, 

Besides a hundred other sweet, pet names, 

To come up on occasion. — Ha ! our mother ! 

And all one splendour with a blaze of smiles ! 

Enter the Marchioness. 
I guess your meaning. 

Marchioness. Hist ! the Marquis comes. 
Show no surprise ; one doubt may mar the whole. 
Hear, ere you speak. 

Mar. I am all ears, no tongue. 

Enter the Marquis. 
Marquis. Welcome, friend Marsio ! 
Mar. " Friend Marsio !" 
Well spoken, friend Tiburzzi ! — [Aside.] Gracious Sir, 
Your proud addition to my humble name — 

March. [Apart to Marsio.] Stoop not too low, or you 

may never rise. 
Mar. — My deeds shall ratify. 
March. [Aside.] Turned just in time. 
Marq. Frankness is best — 
Mar. The coin of honesty ! 

March. [Apart to Marsio.] For Heaven's sake, peace! 
Art talking for a wager ? 



536 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Marq. Signore, it seems my daughter and yourself 
Unknown to me — and therein much I blame you — 
Have leagued your hearts — 

Mar. What ! she — 

March. [Apart to Marsio.] Oh, silence, silence ! 

Marq. You would excuse her, signore, with such reasons 
As, to the partial wits of lovers, seem 
Both law and right ; on me they fall full coldly. 
That love, which breeds such ecstasy in you, 
To me is breach of trust. But let that pass. 

Mar. Against your word — 

Marq. Do not deceive yourself; 
Hearts will make way against ten thousand words. 

Mar. [Aside.] Are you so wilful ? Forward, then. 

March. You see, 
My lord but seeks our daughter's happiness. 

Marq. Yes ; take her, Sir. No foolish whim of mine 
Shall stand 'twixt heart and heart. 

Mar. [Aside.] " 'Twixt heart and heart!" 
What does he mean ? Well, I will swallow all. — 
Your frank approval stifles my poor thanks. 
Let me repay your frankness with its equal. 
No man, who is your friend, has wanted eyes 
To see how, day by day, that ancient wealth, 
Which once so proudly propped your mighty name, 
Has slipped beneath the thing it should support ; 
Till all the glories of this noble house 
Seem tottering down to ruin and oblivion. — 
Nay, do not chafe ; I cannot choose but know it. 

Marq. " Know it, know it !" the very beggars know it, 
And, with unbegging laughter, pass me by ! 
My name's the jest of all this mocking land. — 



BOKER. 537 

The blind, dumb, deaf, conceive it ! Idiots, jays, 
Parrots, have wit to say, ce Poor, poor Tiburzzi !" 

Mar. I would not ape them. 

Mara. Oh, 'tis nothing new : 
Heaven makes us feel our chastenings commonly : 
Of all realities, the realest thing — 
Of all heart-sickening, spirit-killing things — 
That can unnerve, unsex, and bring to naught 
The proudest purposes of stubborn strength, 
Making brawn Hercules a whining baby — 
The very top and crown is poverty ! 
It feeds on hope, it glories in despair, 
It saps the brave foundations of the will, 
It turns our simple faith to blasphemy, 
It gnaws its way into the very spirit, 
And with a weary siege starves out the soul, 
Sending to judgment that bright denizen • 
So changed in hue, so fallen from its estate, 
That Heaven, in the poor, warped, and shivering thing, 
Can scarcely recognize its handiwork ! 

Mar. My purse shall aid you. Use it, without stint, 
In common with me. 

Mara. Pshaw ! I need it not. 
I and my wants have grown such intimates, 
That 'twould seem strange to part us. Prisoned men 
Have wept at parting from their old, dull cells : 
So custom, I doubt not, may reconcile 
A father to an unconfiding child. — 
\Aside.^\ I can take naught of him. \Walks apart. 

March, [Apart to Marsio.] Urge him no more : 
His mind is troubled with an idle fancy 
About Costanza's want of trust in him. 



53 8 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

He has scarce patience, now, to speak with her : 
But he will change, next moon. 

Marq. Pray treat her well, 
Pray treat her well, good Signore Marsio : 
One sin makes not a sinner. She is worth it ; — 
Yes, yes, although she'd not confide in me. 
But then, you know, we fathers have no vows 
Like you hot lovers ; have no skill to show 
The depths and heights of customary feeling, 
With high-spiced words. Love grows a gray-beard in us, 
And lacks the prattle of the winged boy. 
Pray treat her well. 

Mar. I'll have no other care. 
A precious store ne'er wants a zealous ward. 

Marq. Let not that promise rust. 

March. Our daughter waits. 
Signore, go on before. What, what, so tardy ! 
Does your love use a herald ? 

Mar. By your leave, then. [Exit. 

March. Stands it not as I said ? 

Marq. Is she my daughter ? 

March. If she is mine. 

Marq. That strain I cannot doubt : 
There the blood cries. 

March. If it amuses you, 
Pray rail away. There's many an out-door saint 
Blows off his wolfish humours at his wife, 
And paces forth a lamb. 

Marq. Love Marsio ? — No ! 
What, sell herself? — pah! pah! Come, let us in. 
This shivering on the brink is worse than drowning. 
I'll link these lovers. When the knot is tied, 



BOKER. 539 

The galling process of the action stops, 

And I may rub my fretted hands at ease. 

I'll not be tortured. — Marry, marry shall they ; 

And sooner than they think ! Still waiting, madam ? 

Heavens ! what a new Tiburzzi fortune sends ! 

Costanza is beloved by Count Juranio, •whose love she returns ; yet, 
'willing to save her Father , she consents to her "Betrothal'*'' with 
Marsio. Salvatore, a Friend to Juranio, discovers through Pulti, 
a Servant to Marsio, that, at the Marriage Festival, Marsio intends 
to poison Juranio. Salvatore secures the aid of Pulti, and thwarts 
Marsio's plans. 

The Great Hall of the Castle. — A Feast spread; at 
which are seated the Marquis and Marchioness di 
Tiburzzi, Marsio, Costanza, Filippia, Juranio, and 
other Guests. Servants in waiting. Enter Pulti, and 
stands behind Marsio. Then enter Salvatore, and 
seats himself. 

Marquis. We wait you, Signore. 

Salvatore. Pardon my delay : 
My need was urgent. 

Marsio. I have kept the wine. 
Our cups, overbrimming with the sunny juice, 
Stand to attend you. 

Sal. 'Twas a needless pause. 
I never taste the vintage. By your leave, 
I'll use the grape, as Nature gives it to us, 
Thus, in the ripened fruit. For I hold wine 
To be a most ingenious fraud of Satan's, 
Who is so ready to change Heaven's best gifts 
Into some tempting form of sin. 'Tis true 
A healthy apple cozened mother Eve ; 
But I have wondered at that barefaced trick 



54° GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Upon the simple woman. Why did not 
The guileful devil change it into cider, 
And gull her handsomely ? My kinsman, too, 
Is of my way of thinking. 

Juranio. I ! what, I ! 
Why, Salvatore, I would quaff a sea 
Of the rich earthly Lethe, were our night 
Stretched to a polar length. 

Mar. [Apart to Pulti.] You hear him, Sir : 
The Count is wild for wassail. You will not 
Refuse my lady's health ? 'Sblood ! should this dog 
Lap water only ? Pulti, is it done ? 

Pulti. [Laughing."] You'll find it so. — Ho ! ho ! 

Mar. [Apart to Pulti. J Hist! be discreet. 

Sal. I will not balk you, to be curious. — 
A toast, a toast ! 

Mar. Rise, Sirs. Our union ! [ They drink. 

Sal. Simple and pregnant. Cleopatra's pearl 
Suffers discredit by your tasteful pledge. 
I drank it, with good relish, to the dregs ; 
Ay, and forgot my enmity to wine, 
In seeing with what gust you boused it down. 

Mar. You flatter me. Your kinsman holds his peace : 
I hope I touched him. 

Sal. Him ! Why, look you, now ; 
His cup is dry, — the very moisture gone : 
Heavens ! what a fiery thirst ! 

Costanza. Your lover's spirits 
Mount to a wondrous height. It makes one sad 
To see a man so merry. 

Filippia. Wait a while, 
And his high spirits shall fly off with you. 



BOKER. 541 

Cos. You have a hopeful fancy : it must be 
A sorry thing to mark its failures. 

Fil. No; 
I have fresh hopes to help the lame ones on. 
They are like flowers that, dying, run to seed, 
And multiply the race. — See, Marsio ! 

March. What is the matter, Signore ? 

Mar. Nothing, nothing : 
A passing pain. 

Sal. You drink too eagerly. 
A sudden rush of wine into the frame 
Shakes it with spasms sometimes. 

Mar. Are you a leech ? 
Physic yourself — 'Sblood ! 

March. Signore ! — 

Mar. I am ill. [They all rise. 

Sal. Pray will you test my leechcraft ? . 

Mar. I feel faint. 
Nay — I am stronger now. — Come hither, Pulti. 
What does this mean ? 

Pul. I cannot tell. 

Mar. [Apart to Pulti.] Those men, 
Those devilish villains- — Pulti, do you see them ? — 
Look well and merry. Ere this time, the snakes 
Should have crawled homeward, with their venom in. 
The poison but fulfils what Nature skipped : 
While I— Augh ! Pulti— 

Pul. Let me see. . [Runs to the table. 

O Lord ! 

Oh ! Signore Marsio is poisoned ! Oh ! 
The cups are changed. You drank the — 

Mar. Traitor, hold! 
Or I will cut you to the belt ! 



542 G OLDEN LEAVES. 

March. Good Heaven ! 
Poisoned ! 

Marq. Is this your plot ? You — 

Sal. [Apart to the Marquis.~\ Wait the issue. 

March. Run, run — a doctor ! 

Mar. Forty thousand doctors 
Were forty thousand short ! 

Cos. How feel you, Signore ? 

Mar. Out ! smooth drab ! — Oh ! — oh ! 

Sal. You have sprung the trap, 
. But caught yourself for game. 

Mar. Who did this thing ? 

Sal. I. 

Mar. Hear ! he confesses it. Seize on them — 
Juranio and that man — my murderers ! 

March. Ay ! seize them, seize them ! [ The Guests draw. 

Sal. Patience, gentlemen, 
I make you no resistance. On my honour, 
I will not try to fly. 

Mar. A poisoner's honour ! — 
Mercy, what a pang ! — 'Sdeath ! an officer — 
Send for an officer ! Quick, quick — break up — 
I do denounce them both — we'll have no feast ! 

Sal. Ay, but we will ; a marriage, too. 

Mar. How, how? 

Sal. We'll use Juranio, when you are gone. 

Mar. Ah, dog ! may your tongue rot ! 

Sal. Before you, Signore ? 

Mar. Silence the miscreant ! Are you men, to see — 
O Heaven ! these pains ! 

Ju. What means this, Salvatore ? 

Sal. Peace, my dear boy ; the time is mine. 



BOKER. 543 

Mar. You think — 
You two — your countship and that pliant lady — 
You think, I say, when the grave swallows me, 
To wed ? — Ha ! do ye r If the dead can rise — 
And I will up ! HI haunt you till ye pray 
To sleep beside me. I will crawl between 
Your eager kisses with my wormy lips ; 
I'll eat with you; I'll drink — IT1 drink again — 

Heaven ! some water, water ! I consume — 
Till all my flesh has rotted from me. Gods ! 

Ha ! ha ! HI make a merry guest ! You wretch — 

Now I feel easier — you Salvatore, 

HI fight with you, through all your odious days, 

Until I drive you in your grave ! O, curse you ! — 

Do I look better ? I may yet be well. 

Oh ! oh ! these searching cramps ! Where do you go ? 

Come back, I say ! I will not die alone 1 

1 do denounce them — Pulti, Pulti too. 

Seize them — seize all ! Have pity on me, Heaven ! 
I will! — I will! — The room is full of smoke. 
Cut down the poisoners ! I am not dead yet ! 

[Drazvs, rushes at Juranio, and falls. 
Oh, mercy, Heaven ! Oh, curse you ! — oh ! [Faints. 

Sal. Well done ! 
He shows his death-bed in perspective. 

March. Base, 
Base man, to glory in your victim's death ! 
Sirs, apprehend him. [ The Guests advance. 

Sal. Gently, gentlemen — 
I use my cutlery with the best of you — 
Marsio's not dead. A simple opiate 
Caused all this terror. 
"4 



544 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Fil. 'Tis ill news, but true. [carry off Marsio. 

Find out some den to keep this monster in. [Servants 

Sal. Wake from your apathy ! You stand like marble. 

Cos. I never dreamed such horrors. 

Ju. What, not dead ? 

March. O joy, joy, joy ! 

Sal. Call in your priest and notary. 
Are they in waiting ? 

Mara. As I promised you. 
But I can scarcely see my way through this. 

Enter a Priest and a Notary. 

Sal. I am your pilot : trust me. 

Marq. As you will. 

Sal. Now sign this paper, lady ; and you, Count. 
'Tis hasty, not dishonourable. Keep faith. 

Cos. How, Sir ! 

Ju. But, Salvatore, Marsio lives. 

Sal. He lives a felon ! And I roundly swear, 
If you two people are not wed to-night, 
I'll have him hung upon a moving gallows, 
And wheel him after you around the world ! 
I'll have no trifling. 

March. Marsio a felon ! 

Sal. He sought to poison Count Juranio, 
And honoured me by joining me with him. — 
Where are you, Pulti ? 

Pulti. Here, Sir. Room, room, room, 
For Marsio's prime minister of drugs! 
This vial, and my oath, might go some lengths 
To speed his journey to a hotter world. 
Advance my relique ! [Salvatore shows the vial. 



BOKER. 545 

March, Oh, the horrid viper ! 
What an escape poor, dear Costanza made ! 

Sal. You still hang back ? 

Cos. My father still is bound. 

Sal. He is well cared for. Ere another day, 
I pledge myself to buy your father's debts 
At my own price. 'Sdeath ! do you falter now ? — 
My lord, your promise. 

Mara. I command you, daughter 
Obey my friend. 

March. [Apart to the Marquis.] Is Count Juranio rich ? 

Marq. Pshaw ! madam. 

Cos. I obey — perhaps too kindly ; 
But the mere thought of your security 
Sends my heart upward, like a loosened bird, 
Dizzy w T ith hope, and strength, and ecstasy ; 
For I am free again! [Turns to Salvatore.] To you I 

owe 
More than a common show of gratitude; 
But, now 7 , forgive me ; my overflowing thoughts 
Would drown the happy prospect of my speech, 
By sheer abundance of their offerings. — 
To you, Juranio — 

Ju. Nay, dear Costanza, 
Let my heart w r hisper what your words might be. 

Sal. Hide all your roses in your lover's breast. 
Go talk it over, go — we'll never look — 
Then come to us, and notary and priest 
Shall knit you up. 

Ju. Dear kinsman — 

Sal. Silence, Sir ! 
This place is nauseous with stale sentiment. 



546 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Mind your affairs; I've business of my own. — 
Fair lady, have I won ? 

Fil. Yes, Salvatore. [Giving her hand. 

Would it were worthier ! 

Sal. Not for my sake, love ; 
You cannot add a morsel to content. 

Marq. Peace crown you all ! I have such friends, at last, 
As money could not buy — the gifts of Heaven : 
I thank it humbly. As for Marsio, 
He'll wake to-morrow, and behold what gulfs 
Crime opens 'twixt the richest criminal 
And the frank brotherhood of honest men, 
However poor, — gulfs that must yawn forever ! 



CALAYNOSI A TRAGEDY. 

Calaynos, a wealthy Nobleman, a great Student, fond of retirement) 
lives secluded ivith his Wife, Donna Alda, in his ancestral Castle, 
apart from the Court. He is 'visited by a gay Courtier, <who pays 
marked attention to Donna Alda. This excites the observation of 
Oliver, Secretary to Calaynos. 

The Study of Calaynos. — Calaynos reading, Oliver 
transcribing a Manuscript. 
Oliver. [Rising. ~\ My lord, this learned manuscript has 
A crowd of strange conjectures in my mind, [raised 

That rush and jostle through my wildered brain, 
In wild confusion, without settled purpose. [your head ? 
Calaynos. [Rising.] What part stirred up this riot in 
Oli. That part in which it hints at God's design, 
In the creation of the earth and man. 
I oft have wondered how omniscient God 
Could take delight in forming things like men : 



BOKKU. 547 

So full of meanness, yet so full of pride — 
So strong in thought, and yet so weak in act — 
So foul in nature, so o'ergrown with sin, 
Yet destined for a sphere 'neath Him alone. 
What pleasure finds He in our paltry deeds, 
Begot of selfishness and headstrong will? 
What feeling moves Him when the puny thing 
Lifts up his voice, and boldly rails at Him ? 
How deems He, when He sees the myriad souls 
That speed to death — their destiny forgot, 
The purpose of their being unachieved — 
Seeking, unawed, a hell of their own choosing ? 
Why did He form so fair a stage as this, 
To dance His trifling puppet, man, upon ? 
And, last, does not this whole creation seem 
'Neath His contempt, so far above it He ? 

Cat. Stop, Oliver ; you tread on dangerous ground, 
A mental bog, that quakes beneath your feet. 
These words would seem to come from humbleness, 
And low opinion of yourself and man ; 
Yet are engendered by the rankest pride, 
Arrayed in robes of meek humility — 
Stop ! the next step is infidelity. 
Contempt for man begets contempt for God : 
He who hates man must scorn the Source of man, 
And challenge, as unwise, his awful Maker. 
The next step doubt; and then comes unbelief; 
Last, you raise man above all else besides, 
And make him chiefest in the universe. 
So, from a self-contempt, grows impious pride, 
That swells your first-thought pigmy to a giant, 
And gives the puffed-up atom fancied sway. 



54 8 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

God is ! Philosophy here ends her flight ; 
This is the height and term of human reason : 
A fact that, like the whirling Norway pool, 
Draws to its centre all things, swallows all. 
How can you know God's nature to Himself? 
How learn His purpose in creating man ? 
What's ultimate to man, remains concealed : 
Enough for you, to know that here you are — 
A thought of God, made manifest on earth. 
Ah, yet His voice is heard within the heart ; 
Faint, but oracular, it whispers there : 
Follow that voice, love all, and trust to Him. 
Oh, learn, dear Oliver, to pity one, 
Who wanders in this world without a faith 
In something greater than his feeble self! 

Oh. Yet thoughts, like these, will rise in spite of me. 

CaL I know it ; 'tis the taint of primal sin, 
That mingles with each thought, mars every act, 
That stains our very good with something ill ; 
And, like the poison which abounds in plants, 
Mingles its portion with our healthiest food. 

Oil. Does not this knowledge of marrs sinfulness 
Awake a doubt of individuals, 
And make you cautious^ when you deal with men ? 

CaL No ; I have predetermined trust in man, 
That never alters, till I find him false. 
I am above the common herd in power ; 
No rogue can wrong, but in my ample purse ; 
Which I scarce feel — which, had he asked, I'd given. 

OIL \_Aside.^ 'Tis all in vain ! I cannot raise a doubt 
In his ingenuous nature. — There's no hope. 
I have but slender grounds to doubt Don Luis ; 



BOKEK. 549 

And my own doubts, perchance, may work me ill — 
Yet will I go to death, if he's not false ! 
I, from Seville, will gain the facts I want ; 
Meantime — My lord, much of your friend you'll see; 
For you must hunt, and feast, to pass his time, 
And show all courtesies that may befit. 

Cal. Nay ; he's too dear a friend to make a stranger. 
I will divide my castle and my wealth ; 
Let him use each, as suits his present mood. 
We will not clash in interests : he may hunt, 
I study; thus, each may enjoy his bent. 
Then Donna Alda will be much with him. 

Oil. [Aside. ] Hum, hum ! I like not that, I like not that. 

CaL She is so full of life, so fond of change ; 
They two can put their restless heads together, 
Unhood their thoughts at every whim that flies, 
And chase the quarry till they bring it down. 

Oh. [Aside.] Heaven grant these coupled falcons prove 
not haggards ! [Calaynos reads, Oliver writes. 



FRANCESCA DA RIMINI: A TRAGEDY. 

As a pledge cf Peace between Ravenna and Rimini, Francesca of Ra- 
venna is betrothed to Lanciotto, Son to Malatesta, Lord of Rimini. 
Lanciotto is misshapen, " a great t-zvisted Monster of the Wars" 
but of a noble nature. Paolo, his Brother, of elegant person and 
bearing, is dispatched to Ravenna to bring Francesca, from whom 
the personal deformities of Lanciotto have been concealed. 

Scene — Rimini. — The Grand Square before the Castle. 
Malatesta, Lanciotto, and others, to whom enter 
Guido, Lord of Ravenna, and Paolo, conducting Fran- 
cesca, with Lords, Ladies, and Attendants. 



55° G OLDEN LEA VES. 

Maiatesta. Welcome to Rimini, Count Guido ! welcome, 
And fair impressions of our poor abode, 
To you, my daughter ! You are well returned, 
My son Paolo ! Let me bless you, son. [Paolo approaches. 
[Apart to Paolo. ] Ho w many spears are in old Guido's train ? 

Paolo. Some tenscore. 

Mai. Footmen ? 

Pao. Double that. 

Mai. 'Tis well. 
Again I bid you welcome ! Make no show 
Of useless ceremony with us. Friends 
Have closer titles than the empty name. 
We have provided entertainment, Count, 
For all your followers, in the midst of us. 
We trust the veterans of Rimini 
May prove your soldiers that our courtesy 
Does not lag far behind their warlike zeal. 
Let us drop Guelf and Ghibelin henceforth, 
Coupling the names of Rimini and Ravenna 
As bridegroom's to his bride's. 

Guido. Count Maiatesta, 
I am no rhetorician, or my words 
Might keep more even with the love I feel : 
Simply, I thank you. With an honest hand 
I take the hand which you extend to me, 
And hope our grasp may never lose its warmth. — [side ? 
[Apart to a Knight. ~\ You marked the bastion by the water- 
Weak as a bulrush. 

Knight. Tottering weak, my lord. 

Gui. Remember it; and when you're private, Sir 
Draw me a plan. 

Knight. I will, my lord. 



BORER. 551 

Guu How's this ? 
I do not see my future son-in-law. 

MaL Lanciotto ! 

Lan. [Advancing.] I am here, my lord. 

Francesca. [Starting. — Apart to Paolo.] O Heaven ! 
Is that my husband, Count Paolo ? You, 
You then, among the rest, have played me false ! 
He is— 

Pao. My brother. 

Lan. [Aside.] Ha ! she turns from me 

I saw her start and pale, 
Turn off with horror; as if she had seen — 
What ? — simply me. For, am I not enough, 
And something over, to make ladies quail, 
Start, hide their faces, whisper to their friends, 
Point at me — dare she ? — and perform such tricks 
As women will when monsters blast their sight ? 

saints above me ! have I come so low ? 
Yon damsel of Ravenna shall bewail 

That start and shudder. I am mad, mad, mad ! — 

1 must be patient. They have trifled with her : 
Lied to her — lied ! There's half the misery 
Of this broad earth, all crowded in one word : 
Lied, lied ! — Who has not suffered from a lie ? — 
They're all aghast — all looking at me, too. 
Francesca's whiter than the brow of Fear : 
Paolo talks. — Brother, is that well meant ? 
What if I draw my sword, and fight my way 
Out of this cursed town ? 'T would be relief. 

Has shame no hiding-place ? I've touched the depth 
Of human infamy, and there I rest. 
By Heaven, I'll brave this business out ! Shall they 
24* 



552 G OLDEN LEAVES. 

Say at Ravenna that Count Lanciotto, 

Who's driven their shivering squadrons to their homes, 

Haggard with terror, turned before their eyes 

And slunk away ? They'll look me from the field, 

When we encounter next. - Why should not I 

Strut with my shapeless body, as old Guido 

Struts with his shapeless heart? I'll do it! [Offers, but 

shrinks back.] 'Sdeath ! 
Am I so false as to forswear myself? 
Lady Francesca ! [Approaches Francesca. 

Fran. Sir — my lord — 

Lan. Dear lady, 
I have a share in your embarrassment, 
And know the feelings that possess you now. 

Fran. Oh, you do not ! 

Pao. [Advancing.] My lady — 

Lan. Gentle brother, 
Leave this to me. [Paolo retires. 

Fran. Pray do not send him off. 

Lan. 'Tis fitter so. 

Fran. He comforts me. 

Lan. Indeed ! 
Do you need comfort ? 

Fran. No, no — pardon me ! 
But then — he is — you are — 

Lan. Take breath, and speak. 

Fran. I am confused, 'tis true. But, then, my lord, 
You are a stranger to me ; and Paolo 
I've known so long ! 

Lan. Since yesterday. 

Fran. Ah ! well : 
But the relationship between us two 



BOKER. 553 

Is of so close a nature, while the knowledge, 
That each may have of each, so slender is, 
That the two jar. Besides, Paolo is 
Nothing to me, while you are every thing. — 
[Aside.] Can I not act? 

Lan. I scarcely understand. 
You say your knowledge of me, till to-day, 
Was incomplete. Has naught been said of me 
By Count Paolo or your father ? 

Fran. Yes ; 
But nothing definite. 

Lan. Perchance, no hint 
As to my ways, my feelings, manners, or — 
Or — or — as I was saying — ha ! ha ! — or — [Laughing. 
As to my person ? 

Fran. Nothing, as to that. 
Lan. To what ? 
Fran. Your — person. 

Lan. That's the least of all. [Turns aside. 

Now, had I Guido of Ravenna's head 
Under this heel, I'd grind it into dust ! 
False villain, to betray his simple child ! 
And thou, Paolo — not a whit behind — 
Helping his craft with inconsiderate love ! — 
Lady Francesca, when my brother left, 
I charged him, as he loved me, to conceal 
Nothing from you that bore on me : and now 
That you have seen me, and conversed with me, 
If you object to any thing in me, — 
Go, I release you. 

Fran. But Ravenna's peace ? 
Lan. Shall not be perilled. 



554 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Gui. [Coming behind, whispers her J] Trust him not, 
I know his ways ; he'd rather fight than wed : [my child ; 
'Tis but a wish to have the war afoot. 
Stand firm for poor Ravenna ! 

Lan. Well, my lady, 
Shall we conclude a lasting peace between us 
By truce or marriage rites ? 

Gui. [Whispers her.] The devil tempts thee: 
Think of Ravenna, think of me ! 

Lan. My lord, 
I see my father waits you. [Gumo retires. 

Fran. Gentle Sir, 
You do me little honour in the choice. 

Lan. My aim is justice. 

Fran. Would you cast me off? 

Lan. Not for the world, if honestly obtained; 
Not for the world would I obtain you falsely. 

Fran. The rites were half concluded ere we met. 

Lan. Meeting, would you withdraw ? 

Fran. No. — [Aside.] Bitter word ! 

Lan. No ! Are you dealing fairly ? 

Fran. I have said. 

Lan. Oh, rapture, rapture ! Can it be that I — 
Now I'll speak plainly g for a choice like thine 
Implies such love as woman never felt. 
Love me ! Then monsters beget miracles, 
And Heaven provides where human means fall short. 
Lady, I'll worship thee ! I'll line thy path 
With suppliant kings! Thy waiting-maids shall be 
Unransomed princesses ! Mankind shall bow 
One neck to thee, as Persia's multitudes 
Before the rising sun ! From this small town, 



BOKER 555 

This centre of my conquests, I will spread 
An empire touching the extremes of earth ! 
I'll raise once more the name of ancient Rome; 
And what she swayed she shall reclaim again ! 
If I grow mad because you smiled on me, 
Think of the glory of thy love ; and know 
How hard it is, for such an one as I, 
To gaze unshaken on divinity ! 
There's no such love as mine alive in man. 
From every corner of the frowning earth, 
It has been crowded back into my heart. 
Now, take it all ! If that be not enough, 
Ask, and thy wish shall be omnipotent ! 
Your hand. [Takes her hand.] It wavers. 

Fran. So does not my heart. 

Lan. Brave ! Thou art every way a soldier's wife ; 
Thou shouldst have been a Cassar's. — Father, hark ! 
I blamed your judgment, only to perceive 
The weakness of my own. 

Mai. What means all this ? 

Lan. It means that this fair lady — though I gave 
Release to her, and to Ravenna — placed 
The liberal hand, which I restored to her, 
Back in my own, of her own free good-.vill 
Is it not wonderful ? 

Mai. How so ? 

Lan. How so ! 

Pao. [Aside.] Alas! 'tis as I feared ! 

Mai. You're humble ? — How ? 

Lan. [Aside.] Now shall I cry aloud to all the world, 
Make my deformity my pride, and say, 
Because she loves me, I may boast of it ? — 



55 6 GOLDEN LEAVES 

No matter, father, I am happy ; you, 

As the blessed cause, shall share my happiness. — 

Let us be moving. Revels, dashed with wine, 

Shall multiply the joys of this sweet day ! 

There's not a blessing in the cup of life 

I have not tasted of within an hour ! 

Fran. [Aside.] Thus I begin the practice of deceit, 
Taught by deceivers, at a fearful cost. 
The bankrupt gambler has become the cheat, 
And lives by arts that erewhile ruined me. 
Where it will end, Heaven knows ; but I — 
I have betrayed the noblest heart of all ! 

Lan. Draw down thy dusky vapours, sullen night- — 
Refuse, ye stars, to shine upon the world — 
Let everlasting blackness wrap the sun, 
And whisper terror to the universe ! 
We need ye not ! we'll blind ye, if ye dare 
Peer with lack-lustre on our revelry ! 
I have at heart a passion, that would make 
All nature blaze with recreated light ! [Exeunt. 

Francesca and Lanciotto ived ; but Paolo and Francesca are 
enamoured of each other. They struggle against the passion^ but 
Lanciotto being summoned to the feld, they frequently meet. 

Rimini. — The Garden of the Castle. — Enter Pepe, the 
Clown. 

Pepe You may make princes out of any stuff; 

Fools come by nature .... There is Paolo, now, 

A sweet-faced fellow, with a wicked heart — 

Talk of a flea, and you begin to scratch. 

Lo ! here he comes. And there's fierce Crookback's bride 

Walking beside him — oh, how gingerly ! 



BOKEH. 557 

Take care, my love ! That is the very pace 
We trip to hell with. Hunchback is away — 
That was a fair escape for you ; but, then, 
The devil's ever with us, and that's worse. 
See, the Ravenna giglet, Mistress Ritta, 
And melancholy as a cow. — How's this ? 
I'll step aside, and watch you, pretty folks. 

[Hides behind the bashes, 

^c •!• jjj ije >,c ;,< 

Paolo and Francesca. 

Paolo. Our poem waits. 
I have been reading while you talked with Ritta. 
.... Where left we off? 

Fran. Where Lancelot and Queen Guenevra strayed 
Along the forest, in the youth of May. 
You marked the figure of the birds that sang 
Their melancholy farewell to the sun. 
Rich, in his loss, their sorrow glorified — 
Like gentle mourners o'er a great man's grave. 
Was it not there ? No, no ; 'twas where they sat 
Down on the bank, by one impulsive wish 
That neither uttered. 

Pao. [Turning over the booL] Here it is. [Reads. ~\ 
" So sat 
Guenevra and Sir Lancelot" — 'Twere well 
To follow them in that. [They sit upon a bank. 

Fran. I listen : read. 
Nay, do not; I can wait, if you desire. 

Pao. My dagger frets me; let me take it off. [Rises. 
In thoughts of love, we'll lay our weapons by. 

[Lays aside his dagger, and sits again. 



55 8 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

Draw closer: I am weak in voice to-day. [Reads. 

a So sat Guenevra and Sir Lancelot, 

Under the blaze of the descending sun, 
But all his cloudy splendours were forgot. 

Each bcre a thought, the only secret one, 
Which each had hidden from the other's heart, 

That with sweet mystery well-nigh overrun. 
Anon, Sir Lancelot, with gentle start, 

Put by the ripples of her golden hair, 
Gazing upon her with his lips apart. 

He marvelled human thing could be so fair; 
Essayed to speak ; but, in the very deed, 

His words expired of self-betrayed despair. 
Little she helped him, at his direst need, 

Roving her eyes o'er hill, and wood, and sky, 
Peering intently at the meanest weed ; 

Ay, doing aught but look in Lancelot's eye. 
Then, with the small pique of her velvet shoe, 

Uprooted she each herb that blossomed nigh ; 
Or strange wild figures in the dust she drew ; 

Until she felt Sir Lancelot's arm around 
Her waist, upon her cheek his breath like dew. 

While through his fingers timidly he wound 
Her shining locks; and, haply, when he brushed 

Her ivory skin, Guenevra nearly swound : 
For where he touched, the quivering surface blushed, 

Firing her blood with most contagious heat, 
Till brow, cheek, neck, and bosom, all v/ere flushed. 

Each heart was listening to the other beat : 
As twin-born lilies on one golden stalk, 

Drooping with summer, in warm languor meet, 
So meet their faces. Down the forest walk 

Sir Lancelot looked — he looked east, west, north, south — 
No soul was nigh, his dearest wish to balk : 

She smiled; he kissed her full upon the mouth." 

• [Kisses Francesca. 

I'll read no more ! [Starts up, dashing down the book. 



BOKER. 559 

Fran, Paolo ! 

Pao. I am mad ! 
The torture of unnumbered hours is o'er, 
The straining cord has broken, and my heart 
Riots in free delirium ! O Heaven ! 
1 struggled with it, but it mastered me ! 
I fought against it, but it beat me down ! 
I prayed, I wept, but Heaven was deaf to me ; 
And every tear rolled backward on my heart, 
To blight and poison ! 

Fran. And dost thou regret ? 

Pao. The love ? No, no ! I'd dare it all again, 
Its direst agonies and meanest fears, 
For that one kiss. Away with fond remorse ! 
Here, on the brink of ruin, we two stand ; 
Lock hands with me, and brave the fearful plunge ! 
Thou canst not name a terror so profound 
That I will look or falter from. Be bold ! 
I know thy love — I knew it long ago — 
Trembled and fled from it. But now I clasp 
The peril to my breast, and ask of thee 
A kindred desperation. 

Fran. [Throwing herself into his arms.] Take me all, 
Body and soul ! The women of our clime 
Do never give away but half a heart : 
I have not part to give, part to withhold, 
In selfish safety. When I saw thee first, 
Riding alone amid a thousand men, 
Sole in the lustre of thy majesty, 
And Guido da Polenta said to me, 
" Daughter, behold thy husband !" with a bound 
My heart went forth to meet thee. He deceived, 



560 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

He lied to me — ah ! that's the aptest word — 
And I believed. Shall I not turn again, 
And meet him, craft with craft ? Paolo, love, 
Thou'rt dull — thou'rt dying like a feeble fire 
Before the sunshine. Was it but a blaze, 
A flash of glory, and a long, long night? 

Pao. No, darling, no ! You could not bend me back ; 
My course is onward ; but my heart is sick 
With coming fears. 

Fran, Away with them ! Must I 
Teach thee to love ? and re-inform the ear 
Of thy spent passion with some sorcery 
To raise the chilly dead ? 

Pao. Thy lips have not 
A sorcery to rouse me as this spell. [Kisses her. 

Fran. I give thy kisses back to thee again : 
And, like a spendthrift, only ask of thee 
To take while I can give. 

Pao. Give, give forever ! 
Have we not touched the height of human bliss ? 
And if the sharp rebound may hurl us back 
Among the prostrate, did we not soar once ? — 
Taste heavenly nectar, banquet with the gods 
On high Olympus? If they cast us, now, 
Amid the furies, shall we not go down 
With rich ambrosia clinging to our lips, 
And richer memories settled in our hearts ? 
Francesca ! — 

Fran. Love ? 

Pao. The sun is sinking low 
Upon the ashes of his fading pyre, 
And gray possesses the eternal blue ; 



BOKER. 561 

The evening star is stealing after him, 
Fixed, like a beacon, on the prow of Night ; 
The World is shutting up its heavy eye 
Upon the stir and bustle of to-day ; — 
On what shall it awake ? 

Fran. On We that gives 
Joy at all seasons, changing night to day, 
Makes sorrow smile, plucks out the barbed dart 
Of moaning anguish, pours celestial balm 
In all the gaping wounds of earth, and lulls 
The nervous fancies of unsheltered fear 
Into a slumber sweet as infancy's ! — 
On love that laughs at the impending sword, 
And puts aside the shield of caution ; cries, 
To all its enemies, "Come, strike me now ! — 
Now, while I hold my kingdom — while my crown 
Of amaranth and myrtle is yet green, 
Undimmed, unwithered ; for I cannot tell 
That I shall e'er be happier !" — Dear Paolo, 
Would you lapse down from misery to death, 
Tottering through sorrow and infirmity ? 
Or would you perish at a single blow, 
Cut off amid your wildest revelry, 
Falling among the wine-cups and the flowers, 
And tasting Bacchus when your drowsy sense 
First gazed around eternity ? Come, love ! 
The Present whispers joy to us; we'll hear 
The voiceless Future when its turn arrives. 

Pao. Thou art a siren. Sing, forever sing ! 
Hearing thy voice, I cannot tell what fate 
Thou hast provided when the song is o'er \ — 
But I will venture it. 

Fran. In, in, my love ! 



562 GOLDEN LEAVES. 

[Pepe steals from behind the bushes.] 

Pepe. O brother Lanciotto ! — O my stars ! — 
If this thing lasts, I simply shall go mad ! 

[Laughs, and rolls on the ground. 

Lord ! to think my pretty lady puss 

Had tricks like this, and we ne'er know of it ! 

1 tell you, Lanciotto, you and I 
Must have a patent for our foolery ! 

"She smiled; he kissed her full upon the mouth !" — 

There's the beginning; where's the end of it? 

O Poesy ! debauch thee only once, 

And thou'rt the greatest wanton in the world ! 

O cousin Lanciotto- — ho, ho, ho ! [Laughing. 

Can a man die of laughter ? Here we sat : 

Mistress Francesca so demure and calm; 

Paolo grand, poetical, sublime ! — 

Eh ! what is this r Paolo's dagger ? Good ! 

Here is more proof, sweet cousin Broken-back. 

"In thoughts of love, we'll lay our weapons by !" 

[Mimicking Paolo. 
That's very pretty ! Here's its counterpart : 
In thoughts of hate, we'll pick them up again ! 

[ Takes the dagger. 
Now for my soldier, now for crook-backed Mars ! 
Ere long all Rimini will be ablaze ! . . . . 

Paolo, having dishonoured his Brother, determines to fly from Fran- 
cesca j but Lanciotto discovers the guilty Intrigue, and intercepts 
the flight. The Play ends ivith the Death of both Fuancesca and 
Paolo at the hands of Lanciotto. 

THE END. 




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